

(Jass 3 

Book-^Zrfo. 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 











OVKI.U !>' I)91UE|C 


By R. E. FORREST, 











m mA 


.i. Kv' '•' 



•V? '. v^*.^' /, IV'.' 

• ^ . fL 


•’ 

L':il§??v-vn'^”':x 

' ' ', * * • . 


1 1 .' V , 

r % 

^h: . 

J li 

1/ I'"' . 


U'<y 

« * .4 

ml 


?i,r-r 

* ( 

*.sm. 

' A 

•: ••'ti;. 

1 ! 


.‘iV 











I »r 
1 


>S^ 

V ,- , v';m , 

•1 (f ^ • y*t 4 .^‘^** ''*■ 




w.^-: ' '» .' ■ 7 ^- ' ' ■ ■' ■•■'rtr-^ ' 

■- ■ - 'f.r H. ^ 

-■ ■ .:iSpv' v-r •■ 





■■r-v:, ■= 


♦•**'’ ' C/ 

• *' • Jr 

«.» • # ' 


.if 






^ - 


'If'*' ^ 




S*' "• ''• 1 riiF' i 





SA 


. -) 


\ T 


'* '“8 ' «t ^ 

f'f' ’^ir': 

t « . i^fll ' ■ ♦ ■ f 4 » 4 


. ' I 


■■■S v . 





.;•: . 


> I 





’) 


■» I 






*>•' .u-‘» ** ' *• . • • 

- - ‘W 

'•-XjCr ' 

• ’ ’ * ' 


I ' .1 




k • 


*• « ^ 


♦ » 


S\v' - ^ ^ •. * 

4 .fc' . » ■ I'l.*'?- .* • V# 




• I- 


* 7 


Jr 


V ;:v .;i 

'-"■ -^X, ‘ ' ''' ' ‘ * ' 


9 


j'. ' • • . :' ' {' . 'v ■ '' 

T.' •. > ’ 


4 ( 


» I 

f«y •*«• » A * A» . 

k . . . 




. . .tii* 







» • a • « 4 * >V - 


✓ - 




F ^ » 



I » 




. >ai. 


r-f’,';. • ^■*;!' »" ''fev “'■m^s'-''' "‘■- *■ 



•' ^ :. it 


1 X 










2 rri-N^ ;. 









»> 


’Ik! 




V ^^^4^ 

I »W, 





T r'> ^ ^ 

JL^ /‘ 'I !_>' i 


tt you appreciate a Corset that will neither break down nor roll up in voew^ 
TRY BAI.I/S CORSETS. 

If you value health and comfort, 

WEAR BAET/S CORSETS. 

If you desire a Corset that fits the first day you wear it, and needs n® 
** breaking in,” 

BUY BALE’S CORSETS. 

If you desire a Corset that yields with every motion of the body, 
EXAMINE BALE’S CORSETS. 

If you want a perfect fit and support without compression, , 

USE BALL’S CORSETS. 

Owing to their peculiar construction it is impossible to break steels in 
Ball’s Corsets. i 

The Elastic Sections in Ball’s Corsets contain no rubber, and are warranted 
to out-wear the Corset. 

Every pair sold with the following guarantee: 

“If not perfectly satisfactory in every respect after three weeks’ 
trial, the money paid for them will be i*efunded (by the dealer). 
Soiled or Unsoiled.” 


The w'onderful popularity of Ball’s Corsets has induced rival manu* 
facturers to imitate them. If you want a Corset that will give perfect satis* 
faction, insist on purchasing one marked, 

Patented Feb. 22 , 1881 . 

And see that the name BALL is on the box; also Gaarantee of tho 

Chicago Corset Co. 

AWARDED HIGHEST PRIZES WHEREVER EXHIBITED. 

For (Sale t>y aUl Lieading* l>ry Ooods Dealers in tlie 
United States, Canada and Ung^laud. 




I u ■■ 

BLOOD IS THICKER TH?*’ 

’A TT.W lUTB AMO 

OUR SOUTHERN BR 

I 

BY HE>’BY Fi El.U. 
Author of “ From the Lakes of Killai ney L> th<=i iU>K 
to Japan'' “ On the Desert," ‘ Amoru. hf- 

The Greek Tslands, rr- d lurkr;i after i\ 


Of Doctor Field’s new book the Nfew , r k • sa ' - ’Oi 

written many good books of travel iu i. fuigu Vuuls, but ’ ii* i<; 
letters from our own United Staves, and wnicJi he C 'iie.d iii. on xs 1 HTt 'iiii 
THAN Water,’ will be judged by manj to he the beat of all.” , 

The New York hxdependr>> i nnyh: “ The volume bits a hr part of it;* c'lunt. 
In the fact that it is briminujg over with .rc;frr: ;sce.n<: es of the w’ar. pic:u-'%s oi’ 
battles succeeded by peace, witli haofushakioes of J' -tk i'als and Coiit’ederate^-. 
all content now to belong to one ge/iera’ U 'rxi is. T>octor h ield jvv 'ntc- 
ceeded wonderfully in invesfctn.e wJtl' r" ■; iioorest a somewh?.’ prosaic or..' 
common tour by connecting it with the tugh l ' patriot ■u: . • 

tional faith. While the volume is written for the ordinary intelligent reader,, 
may we venture to remark that it is just such a book as \ve would like to put ia 
the hands of the young; and w’^hich, though not professedly a religious book,, 
we should be very glad to have shove out of the Sunday-school Library many' 
more pious but really less Christian and le&s useful volumes.” 

The New York World says: “ Doctor Field’s brilliant descriptions of th© 
scenes visited, his reminiscences of the war, taken from the lips of ex-Confeder- 
ate ofiScers, the vivid contrast he draws between the horrors of battle and the 
present plenty and contentment of peace and prosperity, delight the reader 
and lead to the regret that the volume is not twice as long as it is. . . . It is 
not merely a pleasing book of travel; it is a volume which should have a wide 
influence in further cementing the bonds which now hold the north and south 
together in the strength and affection of indissoluble imion.” 


For Sale by all Booksellers and Newsdealers. 

PRICE 25 CENTS. 


Sent by mail, postage free, on receipt of 25 cents. Address, 

CEOnCE MUNRO, 

MUNRO^S PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

17 to ii7 Vandewater Street, New Yorke 




rV 


The Touchstone of Peril 


A NOVEL OF ANGLO-INDIAN LIFE, WITH SCENES 
DURING THE MUTINY. 



By Rh^EypORREST. 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER 

17 TO 27 Vandewater Street. 


• :,-v^ 

■ . - ' ;■*- 

-*p- y 


'•* ^ • 


If 




< • i 

( ■ 


■ •<. 


•V 


r'- • 


■4 

1 




» J 


\ 


i 


. Cv 

* 


. N 


V • 


f J > 


■’\ 



•<» 

- f , 


r>; 


•f ' 




- -■ ■ 

^ • -.-'^■L ^.'.‘ 


-V 




>> 






-:*^' 



• i, \ i ' . 



OIJOT cTHT 


.**• 

.Ar 


iW ■. 


- f 


U.' « 

- •■ J 




« ^ 


■ ^ *■-' I 

/ 


’••- V 






t . 


. • ^ .--. 


^ « 

-XL 






\ 


'''v< * 




.• • » ' 





^/2 ^ 'll 


.-uHi ;>* .■ 


c-C 


- 




il l . , / V ' ' . ’ t V' 
i\* 4 * * - j '^j'^ 








— *y* S» — 


> . , o/<, ^ ,. 

- A * 


/ » 




* • 

.* « 


>)•■ 


X, 


•?iii )ihT^:i;_/,: 


1 > 


>• 


ci'f £^o .^nrjs 

-* ‘■ox 


■Ti- '■»3r:j[|'y 




v' . -V 


; »-■ 






&'<- . r. , 



. « 

• 

' 1 It ' 

* • t 
~ 4 

. ' r. “ 

#- - ' 

JV' 

• '. . -'1 . -.^•.s, _( 

V •• 

'-^: .V' Oof 

VKi d 


‘ *,:■ 

.'■JA' 

*. ?' 

’ F ;. ■:» ,f, 

ifKii 


: t r.Hd 


"i 

, r 

' t ^ u: : .f - 

» 

-■* ■ ? . ' 

- t 

« 

^ . 


, f 

f<,-: 

f ■ 

d- J: 

■' -■-¥ ■ .,r‘ * 

! 

' - * 1 / 

• , '• 

^ f 

- ■ i(i 
' ■ '• L 


‘ .- ’ 

V- , 

* ■' * J ' 

'i 

r 

\jO 


■ t. <■: t ■ -. 

;v.-^:*.'Vf« 

f 

V 0 

1 • • 

' ^ 

y : 


" ■ ^ 

r-. rA ; «»,.-’ 

V. . .W '» . 

' ■ jX'* ■' \ 

■ p 

V- 

r 

* 

. ft » 

r ♦ » * ^ 

/ 

• , -- 

y • 

oKo'* 

» 

i » * 

c 

i, •» 

i7>;v :: 

< M 

• 

k ^ 

! U'lF 

, ,^■^^,, _. , 

i / ■ cv- ■ ^;. 


L'^ 

^■■:j 

UA . 

.s I-/J) 

■^oo 

'r fc?i' 

.. . ^ 

f < . • - . . • 

- h '.♦: ’ . 

..; 

i 

Jtl. 

/ 

' ' « s 

\ 

-U: r! 

•A» •> 

- '"f 
i' M 


r . 

■; “T*i.r/i 


. IV * 

'll , 

•f 

. :;r ; ■ 

4- \ ' 

w* - .. 

' ‘ 1 - 
. ' Jk 

^ 1 . ' 





*j .^'V 

.i-.yX ■ ■. 'i 

r r 

1 

•i , 

- * ' 

' ' • * # • 

. 'd - V'..- 

1 - .* 

■' 


•#v. 


•"- ;♦ 








y* •' *-i: 

^^'■ . /s*> >■ 


-.1 : 


V-* > 


-<\ 




;^c 


• . ♦•■ 


.• ’V 
\ 

%' ' 

* ' 5 


• <r 


o r :• i 


A sm-> 




' £*7 


'•• <• : 


li. 


f > 

• ^ 

1 ^ • 





j ». 


• . . } 


:T 


•?> 


£ • r 


r » 




• •- . •,-> -'T't / r . 


* .1 ^ 




>-> "' Ju ? 



J i'* 


*, J 

-ic. 


,5 ' .-"J -. 


r. i*- '. 

7“ . . 


< y fJ i. 

* .. /-r *-rr.- 


VmV^T 
1 rM I :. '/ 

•^V ' ’ . i^' ‘ 1 f C' • ic^' * ■ .- '* 1 '^/V. i \y i' i ^.J*l ' ' - * t 

-.0 ■ 0 •■'t ‘ • 

• • * i« • - - i-' 


^ t 


* I * 


. > 




j • , 
• 1 . 


. v' - * ^ 






-i 


f5 « 


■. r^. ■ 


;; ;/"■ v'-fFiF 
% ■ '■■:r,^ - o' - :: M"- ,■•' ^ '-aF 


' ^ 

■■I '' :‘ --'i S: 


r H 


i -i.^, .' 


'■.:0i ''? ••••?■ '.1* ' 

*ti ^i■0 ' i4 




V t- 


- o . 
, >f •. > 


■\f 

xri ,rs 


■-! ' ' :. jj ' -W fh' 




if. 




y * < 






JHr ;v-V:’ -‘ 




‘;r,.i : 7 .-i^ 3jm' 


: ] 


y-y } 


c 


■jp'* 


1 


• • I 



% . ^ .> w . iy^ 






V 

A 


-•J'/' 








1 - 


i 







THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


CHAPTER I. 

HAJIGUKGE FACTORY. 

Place thyself, kind reader, in imagination, by my side. 
We are in India, in the northern part thereof. We are 
standing on the outermost range of the Himalaya Mount- 
ains, on the highest peak of that particular hill along 
whose flat top extend the well-known sanitaria of Mussooree 
and* Lundour — names to be found engraved on every map 
of Hindoostan. Most mountain chains rise up very gradual- 
ly from the champaign they bound, so that the highest 
peaks command a view of nothing but mountains. But 
here, though we are standing only on the outermost range, 
we are more than a mile up in the air, and the low land 
lies at our very feet. The consequence is that we have 
command of two views, two contrasted views, as grand and 
beautiful as any that are to be found in the world. As we 
are looking now, northward, we have before us a vast 
panorama of mountains. Our ardent gaze commands the 
full width of the great mountain barrier; passes, awed and 
delighted, from range to range, each with its own stupen- 
dous peak or mountain, until it rests at last on the final 
dominant range— the range whose lofty peaks are covered 
with everlasting snow — the majestic Himalaya. Let us 
lift our hats; we are in the presence of the monarch mount- 
ains of the world! Of those heaven-touching peaks two 
stand' out in majestic and solitary grandeur, and have for 
ages past been among the holiest of the ten thousand holy 
spots of India; on the flank of that one to the left rises the 
holy Jumna; from the side of that one to the right issues 
forth the still more holy Ganges. 

Now let us turn round and look the other way, to the 
south. We have before us as beautiful a landscape, but 


6 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


one of an entirely different character. Instead of gazing 
on a region of soaring heights and profound hollows, peaks 
and precipices, and icy desolation, we look down on a vast, 
level plain, richly cultivated, grove-covered— a land of 
warm sunshine and fruitful abundance. Close beneath 
our feet, and included between the range on which we 
stand and a low outlying chain of hills, on whose strange 
serrated top we look clean down, is a long and narrow and 
exquisitely beautiful valley, bounded at either end, as we 
see, by a river, which, after passing across the valley and 
breaking through the chain of hills of contorted outline, 
enters on the plains beyond in many winding channels, 
which soon gather together, however, into one single 
stream. Here we have again the two rivers to whose lofty, 
snow-clad sources we have just looked up. They flow on 
from here, at the same distance of sixty miles apart, for 
some four hundred miles, and then, rapidly converging, 
the Jumna runs into the embrace of the Ganges at a spot 
rendered most holy by the conjunction, and named of 'the 
Hindoos Prag, but by the Mohammedans called Allahabad — 
the city of Allah. We are looking down on the DoAb, the 
Land of the Two Waters. These be great boundaries, the 
Jumna, the Ganges, and the Himalayas; and the tract they 
bound is worthy of them — rich, fertile, populous; where 
the villages stand very close together, and the towns and 
cities are not far removed from one another. To it belong 
the imperial cities of Delhi and of Agra. 

From where we stand you may, on a clear day, discern, 
on the verge of the horizon, the glimmering towers of the 
first-named city, which has played so important a part in 
the history of India — played so important a part in that 
great Mutiny with which our tale is concerned, and of 
which movement it was the focus and center. It was in 
the tract between the two rivers that the great conflagra- 
tion burned most fiercely; in it arose — at Meerut, and in it 
left its blackest mark — at Cawnpore. 

Scattered over the surface of the tract, in the various 

stations,'’^ were small companies of Christian people whq 
fell victims to the flames, or escaped from them, as the 
case might be. One such station was that of Hajigunje. 
It lies in the very center of the Doab, very nearly midway 
between the two rivers, and half-way between us and the 
point where they join. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 7 

About five miles from Hajigunje stands an indigo factoiy 
of the same name, in which, in that Mutiny time, dwelt an 
English family of the name of Neale, with whose fortunes 
we have chiefly to deal. From our present standpoint the 
journey to it, in the flesh, is a matter of many days. But 
on the broad wings of fancy we can sweep down to it at 
once. We must go back in time, however. We must not 
approach it in this broad sunlight of to-day, but on a hazy 
morning in November, in the year of grace '' * . , 

Let us pass by the out-buildings, the huge wells and vats 
and godowns, and make our way to the dwelling-place. 
The sun has risen^ but the night mist still hangs heavy 
over the land. Seen through it the building presents but 
a dim and wavering outline; you see a strange admixture 
of thatched and tiled roofs and a big bulbous dome and 
small cupolas floating in the air. But the sun is a mighty 
potentate in India, even at this period of his lowfer course. 
The swift battalions of his rays soon put to flight the ad- 
verse forces of the fog and mist. The building soon takes 
form and rests on the solid earth. But clearly seen, the 
strange admixture looks the stranger. Here is the well- 
known form of the Mohammedan mausoleum, which, be- 
ginning as a little tomb in Arabia or Central Asia, has 
culminated in the Taj Mahal, while here, attached to it, is 
the equally well-known form of the Anglo-Indian bunga- 
low. The homes of the living and the dead form a 
strange conjunction. • The present embraces the past. 
The dual building has a dual history. 

It' was in the days of Aurungzebe, the last of the great 
Moguls, that the huge canvas city of his camp rose up for 
a day or two in the neighborhood of the very ancient town 
of Hajigunje, called then by another name. To it flocked, 
as usual, the people from all the country-side around, for 
the great moving capitals of the Mogul kings were among 
the wonders of the age. Here the countiy people had the 
splendors of Delhi and Agra brought to their doors — stately 
royal dwelling-place, the squares surrounded by the mag- 
nificent temporary homes of the nobles, the long streets 
glittering-with the wares of the merchants. 

To the boys it was a scene of wild delight. They could 
view its wonders undisturbed by those thoughts of forced 
labor, and fodder and firewood taken for nothing, which 
troubled their fathers. On this occasion there was one lad 


8 THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 

who came to the camp day after day. It was the king’s 
horses that seemed to have a peculiar fascination for him. 
This was observed by one Dilawur Khan, a bold soldier of 
fortune, wh®se tents were pitched not far off. His (juick 
eye marked the sturdy frame and bold look of the lad. 

“ Whafc is thy name, boy?” he asked one day. 

Shumshere Beg.” 

Who is thy father?” ' , 

A tailor in Pertabpore ” (the then name of Hajigunje). 

But thou wilt not be a tailor, too? Khoda nakliwas- 
ia!” (God forbid!) “ Those legs were never made to be 
curled up on a tailor’s carpet, but to be thrown over the 
back of a horse; that hand was never made to go snip-snap 
with a pair of scissors, or poke a needle through a piece of 
cloth, but to grasp a sword, thrust with a spear. Come 
with me, and learn the trade of a soldier. Come 
with me, and I will get thee a sword and shield and horse. 
Come with me, and thy fortune is made. Thou wilt have 
a sure entrance into paradise by the slaying of many Kafirs, 
and enjoy a merry life on earth by means of the plunder 
taken from them.” 

The lad went, nothing loath. He rose to be the com- 
mander of many horse; to be a great leader, a trusted serv- 
ant of the king; rose at last to be governor of his native 
province, the possessor of a great estate therein. Toward 
the end of his life he made the pilgrimage to Mecca, and, 
having thus earned the honored title of Haji, he changed 
the name of his native town to Hajigunje. He then built 
himself a fine mausoleum, and set a fair garden round it. 
His four wives were laid in the four chambers at the four 
corners, beneath the light 'cupolas; he himself was laid in 
the central chamber, beneath the big onion-shaped ” 
dome. Here 8humshere Beg lay in peace and quietness, 
and with honor, for full fifty years. Fresh flowers were 
laid upon his grave every morning, the little oil-lamps in 
the niches at the head of the tomb were lighted every Fri- 
day evening, year after year; the rich brocade that covered 
his cenotaph was renewed many times. 

But then came the breaking up of the Mogul empire. 
The Mahratta hordes swept over the land. The lands ap- 
propriated to tlie maintenance of the mausoleum were 
alienated. The building fell into utter neglect and decay. 
The dung of bats lay thick on the grave of Shumshere Beg, 


THE TOUCH STOKE OF PERIL. 


9 


and goats and sheep defiled the chambers wherein lay the 
bodies of the once fondly cherished wives. 

Then came that strange and most memorable event in 
the history of the world— the conquest of India by the En- 
glish. About the beginning of the present century the 
‘ ‘ red line of British conquest, that had for so many years 
been moving up steadily from the coast, passed over the 
tract in which Haiigunje lay, and the English banner, 
following so many others, waved over the battlements of 
Delhi. 

About thirty years after this time, when the country had 
been brought into a more safe and settled condition, an en- 
terprising Englishman came up to Hajigunje to see whether 
he could not establish in its neighborhood the then very 
profitable industry of the manufacture of indigo. He pur- 
chased, from the man he found in possession, the old 
mausoleum, and the land and garden round it. He turned 
the mausoleum into a dwelling-place for himself. There 
was no desecration in this; the place had been desecrated 
enough already, though it is quite possible that the stern 
old Mohammedan would rather have had the dung of bats 
to cover his grave than the carpet of the Nazarene. But 
he was not there to speak for himself, and there was no 
one to speak for him; it was a matter that concerned the 
living more than the dead. 

The business grew and flourished. It passed through 
many hands. English wives came to live in the old mau- 
soleum, and English children were born in it. Additions 
were made to the mansion of the dead in order to accom- 
modate the living; now a room with a thatched roof, now 
one with a tiled or terraced one, now added on this side, 
now on that, producing a most 'bizarre conglomeration, 
until at length the bungalow came to embrace the tomb on 
three sides, only the front of the old mausoleum, with its 
lofty demi-vaulted entrance door-way, being left intact. 

In the year 1847 the property was purchased by a gentle-- 
man of the name of Neale, who had been engaged for many 
years in the ‘Mndigo business in Bengal. He and his 
wife had resided in the factory ever since. They had a 
family of two daughters and one son, whom they had sent 
to England before they left Bengal. Three children had 
been born to them in the old mausoleum, but these had all 
died in their infancy. 


10 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


CHAPTER 11. 

THE ARR I VA L. 

The lady wbo opens one of the numerous outer doors of 
the bungalow, all still closely shut, hurries across the ve- 
randa, down the avenue and through the gate- way onto the 
broad high-road, is Mrs. Neale. If she has come to watch 
for the approach of any one the road offers her every facil- 
ity, it runs dead straight and is very wide, so that the thick 
avenues on either side do not converge obstructively for a 
long way off. But it lies just now quite silent and deserted 
in the misty morning light. The lady returns to the old 
mausoleum, wrapping her shawl more closely round her, 
for her frame is slight and the morning air keen, and walks 
up and down in front of it; a dead silence reigns around; 
then returns to the road and takes her stand there again. 
The light is brightening, sounds arising; the rustle and 
chirrup of birds, the lowing of cattle, the calling of men. 
But still there are but few wayfarers, and these move along 
closely wrapped up in their quilts; one cart, laden mount- 
ain-high with cotton, and drawn by an enormously long 
team of cattle, crawls slowly by with horrid creak. As yet 
the numerous little curly-tailed squirrels have the road pretty 
much to themselves. 

Mrs. Neale returns to the house, makes herself a cup of 
tea at the tea-table, which has now been laid out in the 
veranda, says to the kliidmutgar, Take care that you 
keep the kettle boiling, the young ladies may be here at 
any moment,^’’ and hurries back to the road. The tide of 
traffic has now set in strong and full, for this is an imperial 
highway, the great Grand Trunk Road that joins the waters 
of the Bay of Bengal with the mountains' of Cabul, and 
carts, horses, bullocks, camels, litters, equestrians, pedes- 
trians, move on now in one continued stream; but those 
Mrs. Neale looks for come not, and she returns once more 
to the house disappointed. She knocks at one of the doors. 
No answer. Rattles it violently. 

Koun hye 9 AVho is that? What is it?” roars a voice 
from within. 

The asker knows perfectly well who it is. 


11 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

“ It is I, John. You are not up yet, and they may be 
here any minute. 

“ They can not be here for hours, But I suppose I must 
get up. You are sure not to let me have any more sleep.""' 

Mrs. Neale is slight and slender, and has a very gentle, 
sweet face. There are many strangely contradictory things 
in her look and movement — a youthful face greatly lined 
and furrowed; hair abundant but very gray; an upright 
figure and bearing, and yet an uncertain, wavering walk; 
eyes large and full, but with a dim, twilight gaze. She is, 
in fact, a young woman aged before her time; sorrow and 
sickness have played with her the part of years; it is the 
flow of tears, and not the passage of time, that has dimmed 
her eyes and furrowed her cheeks. There is a straining 
together of the hands that tells of weakened nerves. A 
gentleman now comes up to tlie tea-table. W ith him there 
is no wavering of the footsteps, no trembling of the hands. 
He is a tall, powerfully built man, whose gray mustache, 
gray whiskers, gray hair, and keen gray eyes stand out 
from a deeply bronzed face. He has scarcely taken his 
seat when Mrs. Neale remarks, 

They should have been here a long time ago, John.""" 

“Why?"" 

“ They are to arrive this morning."" 

“ So they will. ' 

“ I have been looking for them for the past two hours. 

“ That will not bring them any the sooner."" 

“ I was up at five o"clock."" 

“ That will not shorten the distance they have to come."' 

Mr. Neale swallows his tea, and Lights a cheroot. Mrs. 
Neale sits clasping and unclasping her hands. They have 
been married twenty years — a happy marriage; they were 
boy and girl together; all the associations of their lives are 
in common; they are all in all to one another; they are 
ready to die for one another, but have not yet learned to 
live for one another. Does familiarity reconcile us to the 
discordant words and actions of those we live with, or only 
make us more sensitive to them? Are the nerves that jar 
dulled by the recurrent stroke, or only made more trem- 
ulous? Does not expectation multiply the strength of the 
stroke? Breaches of conjugal felicity take place from some 
very small fraction of a cause; but multiply that small 
fraction by the number of days in twenty-five years, and it 


12 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


will represent a very large integer. The cause may be 
kindly meant words of warning or advice, but think of the 
‘^damned iteration . Mr. Neale is very irritable, Mrs. 
Neale is very nervous; his irritability, and the constant ex- 
pectation of it, makes her more nervous; her nervousness, 
and the constant expectation of it, makes him more irrit- 
able. 

A servant comes up with some letters and the newspaper. 

“ The post has arrived, and they have not,^^ says Mrs. 
Neale, with a quaver in her voice. 

‘‘ I do not see the connection between the two,^^ growls 
Mr. Neale. Mrs. Neale moves the cups and saucers about, 
rattles them, nervously. Mr. Neale, at the sound thereof, 
makes an impatient half turn in his chair, rustles the paper 
angrily, puffs away furiously at his cigar. 

I hope, I hope, John,’^ says Mrs. Neale,' tremulously, 
‘‘ that they have not met with an accident. ” 

‘‘ There is no reason wdiy they should. 

‘‘You know Mr. Jones was killed the other day by being 
thrown from a mail-cart. 

“ From the mail-cart, on the worst road in India; the 
girls are coming along the Grand Trunk Road in four- 
wheeled carriages. 

“ But the horses are so wild, and the coachmen drive so 
furiously, and the harness is so rotten — 

“ Make up your mind that they have been killed, and be 
done with it,” cried Mr. Neale, savagely. 

He did not want to make that speech, he is very angry 
with himself for having made it, but he could not help 
making it, even though that morning something is to hap- 
pen which ought to draw him and his wife very closely to- 
gether; they are expecting their only two daughters whom 
Siey have not seen for ten years. Mrs. Neale puts her 
handkerchief to her eyes; Mr. Neale reads the paper with- 
out taking in the sense of what he is reading. 

“ Is that the sound of a bugle, John?” asks Mrs. Neale, 
eagerly and anxiously. 

“ No— yes, by Jove! it is;^^ and Mr. Neale chucks away 
the newspaper, and rushes t(^ the edge of the veranda. 

Too-ta-too ! Too-ta-too I Twee-twee!^’ — above the 
hoarse murmur of the road come the well-known notes of 
the coachman^s bugle. Above the cactus-crowned hedge 
appear two flying mounds of overland trunks and boxes. 


13 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

In a few minutes two carriages have pulled up with a crash 
in front of the veranda. From out the first one a young 
girls puts a bright and beaming blue-eyed face — a face that 
exhilarates you, makes you think of breezes and sunshine; 
then, seeing the expectant figures, she jumps out, runs up 
the steps of the veranda, and is soon locked in her mother^s 
arms. From out the other carriage descends, with grave 
deliberation, an older girl, the noble beauty of whose face 
possesses an elevating influence, with notable large brown 
eyes. She moves more slowly toward the veranda, but 
reaching it, she too rushes up the steps, and the big, broad- 
shouldered man receives her in his embrace. 

. The two girls change places; then come tears and laugh- 
ter; a curious examination of parents and children by one 
another. A small crowd of servants is gathered together 
outside the veranda — the khansaman, the khidniutgar, the 
cook, the bearer,' the ayah, the dhoby, the coachman, the 
grooms, the gardener, the chokidar, and many others, have 
come together to witness the great event; and so have 
Pompey and Dash and Dart, and all the other dogs. 

Those of the servants who have known the girls as chil- 
dren now step forward to make their salutations. 

“ You remember Sooltan Khan? He was the khidmut- 
gar before you went home, and used to wait on you chil- 
dren. We made him khansaman when we came here/^ 
says Mr. Keale. 

The old man — who, with his big turban and long white 
beard, and flowing overcoat and thick waist-belt, reminds 
Mary, the elder girl, of the picture of Abraham in her il- 
lustrated Bible — makes a profound obeisance. 

A little old woman, with a flowing white sheet, bordered 
with red, advances up to Chloe, the other sister, and, not- 
withstanding her alarm, presses the backs of her very black 
hands against the young girFs snowy temples, and then 
withdrawing them, cracks the joints of her fingers. She 
then goes through the same form of salutation and bene- 
diction with Mary. 

You know which is which, Golab?^^ asks Mrs. Neale. 

Of course I do,^^ replies the old woman. “ Did I not 
hold them in my lap for years? This is Mary baba, and 
this is Kilooe baba.' 

‘‘ Do you remember Seetul the shikaree " (huntsman)? 
asks Mr. Neale of his eldest daughter, pointing to a thin. 


14 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

wiry little man with a retreating forehead and a sharply 
curved nose. “ And do you remember Pompey?^^ asks 
Mr. IN'eale, in high delight. “ You used to play with him 
as a pup, and ride on the back of his father, Caesar. Yon 
remember Caesar 

Oh, yes; I remember,’^ cries Mary, and puts her hand,^ 
a very beautifully formed one, on the dog^s big head, and 
Pompey wags his bushy tail, as much as to say that he re- 
members, too — quite distinctly. 

The luggage is taken down; the coachmen receive a 
douceur that satisfies even them; the servants disperse. 

The girls sit down, and their mother gives them their 
toast and tea amid a storm of questions— a tornado of in- 
quiries. They are bubbling over with the incidents of their 
first great journey; she overflowing with inquiries about 
her distant son, the only child now parted from her. She 
wipes her eyes as she thinks that he is now left alone in 
England. 

“ Has he a good appetite, Mary?’^ 

“ Oh, very good, indeed replies Mary, laughing. 

Even those nearest and dearest to us do not know the 
full under-current of our lives. Mrs. Neale^s nervous ap- 
prehension had not been solely due, as her husband thought, 
to her fear, foolish and needless, of what might happen to 
the girls on their journey; not solely or even mainly. Her 
daughters had left her as children, ahd have come back to 
her as women. Had the sacred fire of filial love died out in 
their hearts? Had she ceased to be true mother to them? 
Would they meet her with loving eyes or with “ alien look& 
and strange ” ? 

Mrs. Neale now gazes at them not only with fond and 
proud, but with satisfied eyes. She has not lost her chil- 
dren. 

The clock in the drawing-room has chimed the midnight 
hour ere they part. As they say they do not know how the 
time has gone by, we can not tell either. It has gone by. 

What a bloom of beauty, what a fullness of life and health 
and happiness there is about the sisters as they stand un- 
robing for the night! . 

Mary,^^ said Chloe, with ^a little shudder, ‘‘ is it true 
that we are living in a tomb?^^ 

“ Part of the house was an old mausoleum. 

“ With people buried in it?' ’ 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 15 

^^Yes; an old Mohammedau chieftain and his four 
wives. 

, Five people? cried Ohloe, looking over her shoulder. 

I do not like the thought of it. It makes me frightened. 
Are they near us?’^ 

“ Not very/^ said Mary, lightly. “ We have the dress- 
ing-room between us and the nearest wife; she would have 
to cross it to come to us. 

“ Oh, do not speak like that. Let me sleep with you, 
Mary — ^really,^^ cried Ohloe, in her pretty, childish way. 

The sisters have just tasted of the sweet cup of oblivion 
when it is snatched away. The delightful sensation of 
sinking into a deep sound sleep has only just begun to 
steal over them, when it is put to flight by a dreadful 
sound. Thump, thump goes something just without their 
door. 

Oh, Mary! do you hear?^^ cries Ohloe, clinging to her 
sister. ‘‘ It is like the sound we used to hear at uncle^s 
vicarage when they were digging a grave. 

The sound had ceased, but now they hear it again, a sort 
of heavy thud. 

There, it is again, cries Ohloe, in trembling accents. 

Again, and then a voice shouts out, in Hindoostanee, of 
course, ‘‘ Keep awake, oh, brethren, keep awake 

‘‘ Why, it is the chokidar (private watchman), cries 
Mary, laughing. Do you not remember we heard him 
at Oawnpore?” 

“ Be watchful! be vigilant shouts the man again, 
thumping on the ground with his heavy bamboo club. ' 

The watchman in a neighboring village shouts, “ Keep 
awake! keep awake in response, and the watchman in 
the village beyond repeats, “ Be watchful! be vigilant !^^ 
and so the signal cry passes away into the distance over the 
sleeping land. The old watchman at the factory continues 
his rounds, shouting and thumping as he goes. The sisters 
soon get accustomed to the noise. Ohloe, in fact, prefers 
it to the silence. She hkes the feeling of being watched 
over. She has a sense of security against intrusive visitants, 
ghostly as well as corporeal. 


16 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL, 


CHAPTEE III. 

SEPOY OFFICERS. 

On that same morning of the 1st of November, 1857, a 
group of officers belonging to the Native Infantry Eegi- 
meiit quartered at Hajigunje are seated together in one of 
the verandas of the mess-house. They have just come off 

muster parade, and are in full uniform. Three are 
white men and two black, and as they sifc in two separate 
groups, one is reminded of a situation at the end of a game 
of chess; but the differing colors do not as yet represent 
opposite and contending sides; they will do so, however, 
very shortly. 

This little old man who sits so uprightly in his chair, and 
in whose face kindness and firmness are so equally blended, 
is Colonel Monk, commanding the regiment, well known 
throughout Northern India as Peter Monk or the Friar, a 
distinguished soldier and a keen sportsman. He was a 
typicm specimen of a class of men now as extinct as the 
Tasmanian aboriginal — the old East India Company’s 
officer. He was an Anglo-Indian, pure and simple. All 
his sympathies, all his kno wedge, all his family traditions 
were connected with India. His grandfather had raised 
this regiment, one of the oldest in the Company’s service; 
he himself had been born in it. Hindopstanee had been his 
infant language; he had gone to England at the age of 
twelve; had shivered through four summers and three 
winters, had come away rejoicing, and had never gone back 
again. His grandmother was a native of India, but his 
own mother having been a full-blooded Scotchwoman, most 
of the traces of the cross had been obliterated. Notwith- 
standing all this, or because of it, what Peter Monk prided 
himself on most was that he was an Englishman. He loved 
to talk of England, and the joys of English life; of the 
jolly skating and snow- balling of those winter months, in 
which he had been so miserable; of all the delights of Lon- 
don — the Cider Cellars and E/ans’ and Vauxhall. But his 
deepest sympathies were really with India and its people. 
His intercourse with the natives had not been of that pure- 
ly formal and enforced character it is in the case of most 


ir 


THE TOUCHSTO^TE OF PEEIL. 

Englishmen of position, bat of a really friendly character. 
He spoke the language like themselves, knew its turns of 
speech; he knew their mode of thought, or rather had a 
similar one; he knew'liheir forms of politeness. He had 
married a native lady of good family. In his younger days 
he had fought many a main of cocks with the Euwab of 
Lucknow and the young princes of Delhi. He took a 
genuine personal interest in the sports and pastimes of his 
men. He not only respected the caste prejudices of the 
natives, but shared them; he was as sensitive of the pol- 
luting touch of the sweeper as a Brahmin; had as great a 
horror of the flesh of the pig as any Moliammedan. He 
would not, with equal hand, have built a temple, a mosque, 
and a church, as had one of his brother officers. All re- 
ligions, doubtless, led to heaven ; but the Protestant religion 
was the queen ^s highway. He was a Protestant as he was 
an Englishman. That religion was proper to him as Hin- 
dooisni was to a Hindoo. He hated all converts and per- 
verts. He belonged -to the narrow circle of a ruling race in 
a foreign land. He belonged to the highest social class. 
He took place above nobles and princes. He had an in- 
tense pride of race and caste. He was generous and kind- 
hearted, and lavishly hospitable. The joy and pride of his 
life centered in his regiment. There was not a man in it 
whom he had not known as a boy, or who had not known 
him as a boy. He had commanded it in many an arduous 
campaign, on many a hard-fought battle-field. It had 
been his home — the center of all his interests; his stepping- 
stone to rank and’ fame and fortune. As his faith in his 
“ knowledge of the natives was very deep, so his belief in 
the loyalty of his men, in their attachment to himself, was 
very deep also. On that belief he was shortly to stake — 
and lose^ — his life. His knowledge of the manners and 
customs of the people was to prove a delusion and a snare. 
There were depths and currents of feelings which even he 
had not fathomed, and of which even he could not estimate 
the force. Even he could not be a Hindoo or a Moham- 
medan. 

The large frame and florid cheeks of the young fellow 
seated next to him form a strong contrast to the spare figure 
and brown face of Colonel Monk. There is no Eastern 
blood in him. The white skin, auburn hair, blue eyes; tell 
of northern lands, of mild suns, of shrouded skies. The 


18 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PE'rIL. 

ruddy complexion and large, strong limbs speak of a well- 
fed race, living much in the open air. Percy Dacres is a 
fine specimen of that race. He stands six foot two in his 
stockings. The danger to the beauty of his face and frame 
is that of overflesliiness; but as yet it has not overtaken 
him. At present both would be pronounced very hand- 
some. He wears his hair parted down the middle, then a 
new fashion, and has very long whiskers. The third En- 
glishman has a slender frame, almost wider at the hips 
than at the shoulders; and a long, thin face only redeemed 
from ugliness by a broad forehead and a pair of keen-gray 
eyes; liis hair is wispy, his whiskers small and scrubby, his 
complexion sallow, and liis nose long and thin. Dacres is 
Lieutenant Dacres, and this is Captain Steele of the same 
regiment. 

There is a look of mingled simplicity, shrewdness, and 
good-nature on the face of tins stout old native officer. 
His name is Bhola Misr, and he is the Subahdar-major, or 
senior native officer of the regiment. His career has been 
similar to that of most of his class; a peasant by birth, he 
has risen from the ranks, chiefly through long service; 
though, if Bhola Misr has not displayed any extraordinary 
valor on the field, he has always evinced unflinching steadi- 
ness. He has served the Kumpani Bahadour (the Great 
Company) for forty years, with unswerving loyalty. That 
loyalty is no doubt founded mainly on self-interest; the 
service of the Company is the best service in India; its pay 
liberal and secure; it gives a pension.. But there are higher 
motives for it, too. Faithfulness to'one^s salt is honorable; 
unfaithfulness, dishonorable. All the ennobling traditions 
of his life, hardships endured, dangers faced, honors won, 
are connected with the Company's flag. To this has to be 
added that he has a profound belief in the ilcbal — the good 
fortune, the prestige, of that mysterious power, that was 
not king nor emperor, nor any person whatsoever. These 
English were the ruling race; they had the secret of suc- 
cess. They were, doubtless, a rough, rude people, but of a 
strict julstice; and he himself had met with great kindness 
at their hands. 

The other native officer ^is‘ a big man like Bhola Misr, 
but it is the bigness of bone and muscle, and not of fat and 
flesh; Bhola Misr is not so much brown as black, the 
mark of his low caste; the tint of the other ^s face is light 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 19 

olive; and at this season of the year he has quite a color in 
his cheeks. He belongs, in fact, to another race; he is an 
Arab of pure descent; for though his family has been set- 
tled for some generations in India, his maternal ancestors 
have always been girls from the original tribe in Arabia. 
He belongs to that Arab fraternity which has played so 
prominent a part in the past history of India; which in 
many Indian cities occupies distinct quarters, as the tlews 
once did in Europe (but while the Jews maintained their 
nationality with meek fortitude, the Arabs do so with rude 
turbulence), and is still an important factor in the politics 
of the land. 

Sufder Jung is the native officer next in rank to Bhola 
Misr, but while the. latter is quite an old man, he is in the 
. prime of life; he has gained his most unusually rapid pro- 
motion by desperate valor in the field. His face at this 
moment wears a deferential look, very much at variance 
with his bold features, and which a curious self-satisfied 
smile every now and then rises up to contradict. 

“ And so you intend to take your pension next year, 
Bhola Misr?^" said Colonel Monk. 

“ Yes, Oherisher of the Poor.’’^ 

“You enlisted at this very place 

“ It was. so, and from here we went to Chittagong, where 
your honoris father died. The air and water of that place 
were very bad. Many Sepoys died. 

“ Tinder the new order the Sepoys will have to go to 
places where they will lose their caste as w^ell as their lives,^^ 
said Sufder J ung. 

The tone and substance of his speech made Colonel Monk 
and Captain Steele stare at him ; Dacres puffed away un- 
concernedly at his cigar; anything said by a native was to 
him “ bosh and humbug. 

Among the things troubling the Bengal Sepoy at that 
time was the withdrawal of an old and valued privilege, 
that of enlistment for service within the limits of India; if 
they went beyond those limits, it was only as volunteers; 
now they were to enlist for general service, even though 
this should involve the having to cross the “ black water,^^ 
the hated sea. 

“ What words are these said Colonel Monk, sternly. 
“ The government has the right to send its soldiers where 


20 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

it pleases, and the faithful soldier will go where he is 
ordered/^ 

“ Cherisher of the Poor! Exalted One!^^ said Sufder 
Jung, in a bland voice, “ we Mohammedans are. like your- 
selves; it does not matter to us where we go. It is the 
Hindoo Sepoys who say that if they are sent beyond the sea 
they will lose their caste as well as their lives. I am sure 
they ought to consider that when they have « entered the 
service of the government they belong to it, body and soul. 

A little smile flitted across his lips, which Colonel Monk 
did not catch, for he had turned to take his letters from the 
orderly Sepoy who had come up with them, but it did not 
escape the eye of Captain Steele. This orderly draws him- 
self up and makes his military salute. He is a tall, un- 
gainly man, with a singularly ill-favored countenance; but 
the eye of Bhola Misr rests on him with delight, for he is 
his youngest son, his Benjamin. As Colonel Monk takes 
the bundle of letters and papers from the young Sepoy ^s 
hand, little does he dream that that hand is so shortly to 
deal him his death-blow. The arrival of the post has made 
Colonel Monk forget Sufder Jung’s last speech, as he would 
not otherwise have done, for the signs of disturbance in the 
Bengal army had begun to show themselves, and to the 
ojlicers of that army each day’s news was now of the deep- 
est interest. Colonel Monk throws open the Delhi Ga- 
zette. ” 

More fires at IJmballah!” he exclaims. 

Umballah was the station where detachments of the vari- 
ous native infantry regiments were gathered together for 
their annual course of musketry instruction, which this 
year included the use of the new Enfield rifle. 

‘ They have burned down the bungalow of the musketry 
instructor and one of the hospitals,” went on Colonel 
Monk. 

The two native officers do not speak English, and are 
not supposed to understand it either; Bhola Misr really 
does not, Sufder Jung does, much better than he ever 
cared his English officers to know; but the word IJmballah 
was sufiicient to indicate tlm nature of the news. 

“ What is your opinion in this matter, Bhola Misr? Do 
you think the Sepoys have anything to do with these acts 
of incendiarism?” 

God knows, sir,” said. Bhola Misr, sadly. ‘‘ There is 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


31 


some evil influence in the air. 'There is something leading 
the Sepoys astray. There are many foolish and evil-minded 
men among them ; but, as your honor is aware, it is a com- 
mon practice among thatchers, and those who sell bamboos 
and grass, to burn down houses so as to make work for 
themselves, and get sale for their goods. 

“ But these fires are of such a special character. The 
house of the musketry instructor has been set fire to twice. 
You know there is some discontent among the Sepoys about 
these new cartridges. 

The times are evil,^"' said Bhola Misr, shaking his 
head, sorrowfully. “ There is an ill wind blowing; the 
stars shed down a malign influence. 

What do you think of it, Sufder Jungr'^ 

“I have not thought much about it. Exalted One. As 
the Presence is aware, my daughter is about to be married, 
and I am absorbed in that business, said Sufder Jung, 
who had received the day before the intelligence which had 
only just reached Colonel Monk; “ but I happen to have 
heard, accidentally, that there is some foolish rumor going 
about among the Sepoys — doubtless unfounded — some one 
mentioned it to me— I do not know who it was — a foolish 
rumor — it would only be very foohsh people who would be- 
lieve it. 

What rumor?^^ asked Colonel Monk, sharply. 

That the English government has had the new car- 
tridge smeared with the fat of cows and pigs, so as to de- 
stroy the caste of the Sepoys,^ ^ said Sufder Jung, quietly. 

“ Who has dared to say so? Who is the man? Name 
him. He shall be heavily dealt with!^^ cried Colonel Monk, 
hotly. 

“ Exalted and Mighty One! High in Place! Sun of 
Prosperity! I do not remember who it wao. It was a re- 
mark that I overheard. Some one said that he had heard 
it from some one else. 

‘‘ The next time you hear such a remark you will take 
care to note and remember who makes it, and report him 
to me,^' said the colonel, very sternly. I will hold you 
responsible for this; and you, too, Bhola Misr. " 

His voice grew even sterner as he asked, “ You do not 
believe this, you two?^^ 

I should not have believed it once,^' began Bhola Misr. 

“ And do you believe it now?^^ cried Colonel Monk. 


22 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

‘‘ ISIo, sir, no/" answered Bliola Misr, hastily, in accents 
similar to those in which a school-boy makes the same, reply 
when the school-master asks him, with uplifted cane,, 
“ Will you ever do so again?"" 

And you, Sufder Jung?"" 

Sir,"" said Sufder Jung, “ for what I know there may 
be no new rifles and no new cartridges; neither the one nor 
the other."" 

This was not a satisfactory reply. Colonel Monk looked 
fixedly at the man. 

“ How could I believe, sir, that the British government 
would ever entertain any such intention?"" said Sufder 
J ung. 

“ Very well. Alf riiklisat liy "" .(leave is given — the usual 
formula of dismissal), said Colonel Monk, rising from his 
chair. The two native officers rise also and, af^er making 
their salutes, take their departure. Both the men have 
found sittijig in the chairs very irksome. Bhola Misr has 
found his foreign garb very uncomfortable, too, for he 
wears his national loincloth under his alien trousers — which 
causes the tail of his jacket to stick out in a very comical 
way. Thus, it may be, does the whole nation find the new 
garb of civilization into which we have thrust it uncom- 
fortable and constraining and irksome, too. 

The two men, as a mark of respect, have left their steeds 
at one of the gate-ways leading into the grounds. Bhola 
Misr scrambles on to the back of a strawberry-colored 
mare, and rests there like a sack. Sufder Jung leaps 
lightly on to a powerful horse, and sits him with the ease 
of a practiced rider. 

“ Tmnaslia shoroo liy "" (the fun has commenced), says 
Sufder J ung to Bhola Misr, as they ride away together 

“ Hush! hush!"" cries Bhola Misr, looking back uneasily 
over his shoulder, as if he thought the words might reach 
the ears of the Englishmen, though now more than a fur- 
long off. 

“ They have only just received the news which I got yes- 
terday. The dance has begun."" 

“ Dance! you will danc^ at the end of a rope!"" cries 
Bhola Misr. “You will be made to dance as the bears are 
— with a thick stick. "" 

“ I should advise you to look after that fellow Sufder 
Jung, colonel,"" says Captain Steele, in the veranda. 


THE TOUCHSTOI^E OF PEKIL. 23 

‘‘ I will ask for your advice when I want it/^ replies 
Colonel Monk, angrily. “ As you have been such a very 
short time with the regiment, you are probably not aware 
that Sufder Jung is a very distinguished native officer. 

‘‘ I watched the man carefully just now, and, judging 
from his words and looks, I should say that he sympa- 
thized with the disaffected Sepoys. " 

“You should be very careful how you say such a thing 
of a man as notorious for his loyalty as his bravery. 

“ I think you noticed the way in which he said that for 
what he knew there might be no new rifles or new car- 
tridges at all. 

Colonel Monk frowned; that speech had, indeed, troubled 
him, he had not liked it. But he replies — 

“He merely meant that he knew nothing at all about 
the matter. You can not judge a man of twenty years’ 
good service, and of distinguished gallantry in the field, by 
a few hasty words. ” 

“ I thought it my duty to communicate my impressions 
to you,” says Captain Steele, rising to go. 

“ Stop, and have a game of billiards,” says the colonel 
to Dacres, who had also stood up. 

“ That fellow Steele seems to think,” observes Colonel 
Monk, looking after him, as he rides away, “ that because 
he was at the university he knows all about everything bet- 
ter than any one else. He thinks he knows more about 
the Sepoys even than those who have three times his length 
of service.” They had now entered the billiard-room. 

Did he not say the other day that the great danger to our 
rule in India lay in a general mutiny of the Sepoy army? 
I thought I heard hmi say so. ” 

“ He was quoting Sir Charles Napier’s words.” 

“ Sir Charles was a madman. Will you break?” 


CHAPTER IV. 

BHOLA MISR AKD THE BRAHMIHt 

But a few hours later, and old Bhola Mist is supremely 
happy. He is seated outside the door of his hut, with 
nothing on but his loin-cloth and a little muslin cap, and 
is breathing in the balmy air at every pore. He has eaten 
a large mess of unleavened cakes and whey, and is now 


2i THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

smoking a pipe of excellent tobacco — tobacco sweetened 
with molasses and scented with rose-leaves. He is looking 
out on the world with happy eyes. He has come well 
through life. He has won for himself power, position, re- 
spect, honor; exchanged the musket for the sword. He is 
the father of the regiment, and a favorite with officers and 
men alike. Next year he will retire with his comfortable 
pension. He has married his two daughters well. His two 
eldest sons are non-commissioned officers. True, his third 
son, Colonel Monk^s orderly, is a loose and disorderly liver,, 
cross-grained, quarrelsome, evil-tempered; but he hopes 
that these are the faults of his youthfulness. J ust now the 
air is balmy, the sunshine pleasant; around him are the 
cheerful, familiar sounds and sights. Now he exchanges a 
laugh with this one, now a kindly greeting with another: 
he is happy and content. 

The Sepoy lines at Hajigunje was a pleasant-looking 
place, with the green parade-ground stretching out on one 
side of it, and with its shady avenues of trees. The Sepoys 
in India do not live and mess together in barracks as do 
our soldiery, but in lines where each man has his own sep- 
arate hut. They generally prefer to cook and eat in the 
open air, more especially if they are Brahmins, as is the 
case with most of the men of this regiment. The open 
space bn this side of the lines, with its wells and um- 
brageous trees, is the place chiefly used for the purpose. 
Here, at this moment, you may see the men bathing at the 
wells, preparing the little plots of ground in which they 
cook and eat, and which, while occujhed for the purpose, 
are held sacred ground. Were the shadow of a Christian 
to fall across one of these, The occupier would throw away 
all he had cooked, and subject his brass dishes to the puri- 
fication of fire. The inviolable sanctity of his cooking- 
place is one of the most cherished rights of the Hindoo; se- 
cure him that, and he does not care who rules the land. 
As the men move about with nothing but- a little loin-cloth 
on — not even a skull-cap — they look like animated bronze 
statues. Most of them are well-built men, for this is a 
crack • regiment, and have well-cut features, for most of 
them are Brahmins. It is a bustling, animated scene; 
there is much noise and laughter; the men move about 
with an air of jaunty self-assurance. ' 

Bawa Jan! \Bawa, father; Jan, life), says his ill- 


THE TOUOHSTOHE OP PERIL. 


25 


favored son, whose tinsel-covered cap and slippers, trans- 
parent muslin coat, and very loose trousers, indicate the 
roiie, the loose liver, to Bhola Misr, “ let us slroll down to 
the temple of Mahadeo.^^ 

“ Nay, my son; I am very happy as I am.:’^ 

“ It is a pleasant walk. ” 

“ The bow cares not to rise when she has lain down to 
chew the cud.'’ ^ 

“ The chief priest from Hurd war is here,^^ persisted the 
young man. “ Let us go and touch his holy feet.'’^ 

The old man does not like to resist the wishes of his 
surly son, as he would have those of his better-tempered 
ones. He goes into his hut, which is larger than those of 
the Sepoys, and comes out with turban on head, shoes on 
his feet, and his wadded long coat on. They pass through 
a fertile tract of land, covered with umbrageous mango 
groves, between which lie vast stretches of barley and 
wheat, sugarrcane fields and cotton fields, and the old man 
looks around him with a dehghted and critical eye, for he 
has driven a plow in his youth, wielded the sickle before he 
shouldered a musket. They come to a gate-way in a high 
brick wall and pass through it into a wide court-yard or 
inclosure. It covers a great extent of space. Round it 
run long lines of buildings, arcades, cloistei*s; within it are 
fine large trees, big wells, a kitchen garden, an orchard; in 
the very center is a raised platform, at one end of which 
rises up a temple, before which stands the sacred Tulsi 
shrub, and the foul symbol of the phallic worship — the act 
of reproduction grossly represented. The square basement 
block of the temple, in which lies the one single temple 
chamber, is elaborately carved and ornamented, as is the 
•high, tapering, pyramidal roof. In the center of this 
chamber is a marble image of a cow, on to which, from a 
vessel suspended above it, ever drips the sacred Ganges 
water, while the fioor before it is covered with offerings — 
rice and wheat, and flowers and coins; earrings and nose- 
rings, put there, perchance, by women desirous of off- 
spring, who have paid their “ wanton rites to the foul 
image without. Here and there about the inclosure are 
squatted groups of pilgrims and fakirs and wandering de- 
votees, male and female. In one corner a tall elephant 
whisks his trunk, while near him are baggage ponies, and 
a large party of men. 


26 THE TOUCHSTONE OE PEKIL. 

Is this the retinue of the high priest? asks Matadeen, 
the son of Bhola Misr, of one of the men. 

“ Yes/^ 

“ Where is he?^^ 

Up there/^ pointing to one of the four bastions with 
which the corners of the inclosure are rounded off, and 
which are crowned by light cupolas resting on slender sand- 
stone columns. Ascending to it, they find the holy man 
seated cross-legged on a tiger-skin, enjoying the balmy 
warmth of the air, and the sight of the groves and fields 
spread out below. 

Earn, Eam!^’ cry father and son, as they bend down 
and touch the holy feet. 

“ Data Eam,^^ replies the priest. 

He is no withered ascetic with distorted limbs, like some 
of those in the court-yard below. All the curves of his 
body and face are round, and full, his skin very soft and 
smooth, a well-nurtured, well-kept man; about his whole 
person a dainty, superlative cleanliness. Though of such 
exalted spiritual rank, he is quite a young man, a man of 
only five-and-twenty years, which, however, would corre- 
spond to five-and -thirty in Europe. 

Our ideas with regard to Hindooism have latterly under- 
gone a very great change. Zeal is no longer considered the 
only qualification needed by the Christian missionary. It 
is no longer thought that you can knock down a Hindoo 
with a tract as sailors knock down the stupid penguin with 
a stick. We have begun to know that a Brahmin priest 
will defend the use of symbols with the same arguments 
that a Catholic priest will: that you may hear as much 
subtle talk about spirit and matter, subject and object, 
and that sort of thing, in Benares as in a German univer-. 
sity: and that behind the esoteric Polytheism — childish, 
fantastic, obscure, cruel— lie the higher thoughts and senti- 
ments of an esoteric Deism. But the enormous domestic, 
and consequent social and political power of Brahminism is 
still not fully recognized. The Brahmins have supreme 
power in the household, of which the nation is but the ex- 
tension. They rule the minds, and sway the actiops of 
kings and princes. There are Hindoo orders as carefully 
worked and organized as those in the Church of Eome. The 
priest, at whose feet Bhola Misr and his son have set them- 
selves down so meekly, is the head of one of these. The 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


27 


head temple, under the shadow of the Himalayas at Hurd- 
war, is connected with the other great temple by the waters 
of the Bay of Bengal at J uggernaut by a chain of minor 
temples like this one at Hajigunje. The order owns broad 
lands; is rich in offerings. It has strict and settled rules 
of action; secret signs and pass- words: a special organiza- 
tion for the conveyance of information and orders. Its 
emissaries passed unquestioned through the land, protected 
by their sacred character. The English people of Haji- 
gunje had as much knowledge of what went on in this tem- 
ple inclosure as they had of what went on in the earth ten 
miles below their feet. ^ 

‘‘ i have brought my father to see you,^^ said the young 
Sepoy, in a tone of voice which seemed to imply the fulfil- 
ment of a promise, obedience to a command. 

‘‘ I am glad to see so great a warrior. ” 

“Hay, I am but a poor soldier, said Bhola Misr. 

“ Nay, a very Eustum. I have heard of all the great 
battles in which you have fought. Now, of all the cam- 
paigns you have gone through, which one was the worst 

“ The one in Cabul; that was a very terrible campaign. 
What thousands of people lost their lives! What privations 
and hardships had to be endured ! Bap re hap ! how we 
did suffer from the cold. It was terrible. Thousands of 
men lost their fingers and toes, their whole hands and feet, 
through the cold. You may see them now going about the 
country begging.'’^ 

“ I have,^^ said the young priest, shortly; “ poor 
wretches 

“ Know this,^'’ said Bhola Misr, growing excited, as he 
always did when talking of that never-forgotten time, “ the 
cold was so great, the men were so numbed by it, that they 
stood still and could do nothing to defend themselves. The 
Afghans went up to them, and put the thumbs of their 
left hands under their chins, and lifting them up, like this, 
drew their knives across their throats. I saw many Sepoys 
killed like that."" 

“ What were you Sepoys doing in Cabul?"" 

“Eh?"" 

What were the Sepoys doing in Cabul?"" 

They went with the army. "" 

That I know. But why should they go to Cabul?^ 


28 


THE TOUCHSTONE, OF PEKIL. 


‘‘AVitli their regiments; because they were ordered/^ 
said Bhola Misr, looking puzzled. 

‘‘Why should Hindoo Sepoys go to Cabul to help En- 
glishmen to fight Afghans? What are the English or the 
Afghans to them?^^ 

“ The Sepoy goes because of his seiwice; because he is in 
the service of the government, and must go where he is 
ordered.'’^ 

“ Even if he loses his caste?’ ^ interposed the priest. 

“He goes, pet ke waste ^ ^ (for the sake of his belly), 
said the old man, bluntly. 

“ And is the belly everything?” cried the priest, scorn- 
fully. “ Will a man do anything for the sake of his belly? 
Will he sacrifice his religion and his caste for the sake of 
his belly?” 

‘ ‘ The English Government has never interfered with 
our religion or our caste. ” 

“ Has it not?” said the priest. “Is it not doing so 
every day? Has it not prohibited the noble and pious rite 
of Sati? — a rite that has been practiced in this land for 
thousands of years; a rite that was the peculiar glory of 
our women. Ho you think Englishwomen would ever burn 
themselves with their husbands? Then they have passed a 
law permitting widows to remarry, which is forbidden by 
the Shasters, and has never been done in this land for thou- 
sands of years. Do not the English make the Hindoos, 
whom they seize and thrust into their prisons, mess to- 
gether?” 

“Yes,” said Bhola Misr; “but only the men of the 
same caste are made to mess together, and the food is 
cooked by Brahmins.” 

“ Does not a Hindoo like to eat out of his own tlialee 
(brass platter), and drink out of his own lotah (brass cup). 
Has it not been the custom for immemorial ages? Is it not 
a cruel tyranny to debar them from this? It is all very 
well to say that the food is cooked by Brahmins. Suppose 
one day it is cooked by sweepers — will not the men all lose 
their caste then? In one day how easily can something that 
will cause them to lose their caste be put into the food? 
Do you not see the craftiness of it? And have you not 
heard that the government has orde;’ed bone-dust to be put 
into the flour that is ground at its mills?” 


, THE TOUCH STOKE ' OF PERIL. 29 

Faugh cries the 3^oung Sepoy, in a tone of deep dis- 

gust, spitting violently upon the floor by his side. 

TobaT'’ cries the old man, making a face and spitting 
violently over the edge of the parapet wall. 

And, above all, have you not heard that the governor- 
general has ordered the new cartridges to be smeared with 
cow^s fat> so that when the Sepoy bites them he will get 
this, yah! into his mouth. 

The priest’s face is convulsed with disgust — a spontan- 
eous and unfeigned disgust. Father and son both cry 
Tohah! Tohah! in the same breath, and express their 
feelings of abhorrence in the same manner as before, and 
then sit silent as if overpowered by the mere thought, the 
mere idea. 

“ It will not affect me; I no longer handle a musket,’^ 
at length says Bhola Misr, in an under-tone, and as if to 
himself. 

“ What!^’ said the priest, in accents of "deep disdain, 
‘‘ do you care nothing for the loss of caste of your breth- 
ren, of your fellow-Sepoys, of your^own sons? I did not 
expect to hear such words from a man like you.^^ 

“ Nay, sir priest, I but gave utterance to a thought that 
passed for a moment through my mind. The matter does 
not concern me personally; but I must care for the loss of 
caste of my fellow-countrymen and fellow-Sepoys, and my 
children, of the son who will have to perform the funeral 
rites for me. 

“ Then you will help those who are determined that 
these things shall not continue? You will be on their side? 
You know how these English have treated the kings and 
princes of India, taken away their crowns and kingdoms 
from them. They deprived the Peishwa of his throne, 
seized all his treasures, then gave him a small pension, 
which they now refuse to continue to his son, the Nana 
Sahib, Dhoondoo Punt. They robbed the Eanee of Jhansec 
of her territory, robbed her even of her jewels, treated her 
with personal indignity. They have deprived your own 
Nuwdb of Oudh of his kingdom. Some men have resolved 
that these things shall cease, that the sacred rites of our 
religion shall no longer be forbidden, our caste endangered. 
The deposed kings and princes will be replaced on their 
thrones, and his full sovereignty restored to the King of 
Delhi/^ 




30 THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 

And the English?’^ gasped Bhola Misr. 

Shall be wiped out of the land.^^ 

Bhola Misr’s face wore a look of astonishment and dis- 
may. 

‘‘ How can you do this?^^ at length he stammers. 

The kings and princes will band together, the rajahs 
and nuwdbs will join their armies together; Holkar and 
Scindia, Joudpore, Jeypore, Ulwar, Tonk, Dholepore. 
The people will rise everywhere. The people of Oudh will 
rise; the people of the Doab will rise; the sikhs will rise; 
and the Sepoys will rise. Through them the English con- 
quered the land; through them they shall lose it.'^'’ 

There was silence for a few minutes. The intended com- 
munication had been made; it was now to be seen what 
eifect it would have. The young Sepoy showed his anxiety; 
but while the priest ^s eyes were fixed on the old Subahdar’s 
face with keen scrutiny, his own face preserved its usual 
soft, quiet look. 

Maharaj!^^ said Bhola Misr, in a very respectful but 
firm voice, ‘‘you are* wise as well as holy; but these are 
not the words of wisdom. No good can come of this to 
those concerned, but only harm. To the chiefs and 
princes great loss, to the Sepoys utter destruction. The 
Sepoys would indeed be fools to risk the loss of the great 
advantages they now possess — good pay, good position, 
comfortable living, good pensions. You know not the 
power of the English. 

“ The belly again said the priest, disdainfully; “you 
do not mean to say that you would give up your religion 
and your caste for the sake of your pay and your pension? 
That would be ignoble indeed. What will his pay and his 
pension profit the Sepoy if he be an outcast among his breth- 
ren? The power of the English depends upon the Sepoy 
army: they are nothing in themselves. See how few they 
are in numbers — one English regiment here and one En- 
glish regiment there. What are the English forces com- 
pared with the Sepoy army?’^ 

“ They have plenty of men in England. 

“No. When they had the war with Eussia three or 
four years ago, they could send but a small army against 
her. We know this from a friend who was in the camp of 
that army. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


31 


“ Yes; but great is the valor and the skill in battle of 
these Englishmen. I have seen them exercised. 

“"And have we no skill, no valor?^" cried the priest, 
vehemently. ‘‘ Are we to acknowledge ourselves fools and 
cowards? Shame upon us if it be so. 

“ Baiua jee! (Sir H'ather!) you are holy as well as wise. 
It is not right for men to be treacherous and unfaithful. 
The dog should not bite the hand that feeds it.^'’ 

“ Dogs! — Yes. Are we always to remain the dogs of 
these people who are strangers to us? Why should we be 
the dogs, and they the masters? Treachery! There is no 
treachery in fighting openly, as we should do. And are 
they not dealing treacherously with us in the matter of our 
caste and religion? Who has ever been more treacherous 
than these English? IJiifaithful! Have they kept faith 
with the kings and princes of India? You, Bhola Misr, 
have served them faithfully while in their employ. But 
you may leave their employ if you please. There is noth- 
ing unfaithful in that.^'’ 

“ There will only be loss,^^ said Bhola Misr, shaking his 
head. There will only be mischief and trouble. 

Loss!^^ said the priest “ You talk about the loss of 
pay and pension. Why, of course, the Sepoys would re- 
tain these under the King of Delhi. And what great ad- 
ditional rewards will not be bestowed on the men who will 
restore his kingdom to the king. Why! What is the pay 
you now receive, and the pension you look forward to, 
compared to what such a warrior as you would receive from 
the King of Delhi? Jewels, elephants, shawls, a high title, 
grants of land. I have heard these men say that should 
anything take place — we do not know that it will — but 
should it, that you would be made the colonel of your regi- 
ment. Think of your pay and position then! and your 
son, here, would be raised to tlie rank of an officer in it; 
made a luftain ^’ (lieutenant). 

‘‘ No, no,^’ cried the young fellow, ‘‘ I will not be 2i, liif- 
tain. I must be made a kujotan ” (captain). 

‘‘You owl! you fool! you wanting in understanding! you 
madman!’^ cried Bhola Misr, glad to have an opportunity 
of venting on his son the anger he dared not dis|)Iay toward 
the priest. “ Yes! a captain for a week, and then the gal- 
lows! That will be the only rise in the world you will get. 
Donkey! 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


32 

Guru Sahih !” he went on, turning to the priest, 
those who move in this matter will only bring destructi ,n 
on themselves and others. I know what comes of regi- 
ments mutinying — loss of livelihood and loss of life. You 
have lived apart from them, and do not know the extraor- 
dinary uhl (knowledge — wisdom) and liihmut (cunning) of 
those English people. I think it is most dangerous even 
to talk of these things. 

“ The permitted hundred years of their rule will soon be 
over. It is written in the Book of Fate. But we will not 
talk any more of these things now, my son. I have now to 
proceed on my journey. I have only been talking to you 
of things that may happen. You will ponder my words. 
But remember that it is not well for a man, for the sake of 
his worldly interests, to allow his caste ^^nd his religion to 
be tampered with; that a man should bj-;.nn the side of his 
fellow-soldiers and his fellow-countrymen.’^ 

“ And you will not breathe a word of what I havc isaid,” 
he added, in accents that made the old man tremble. ’ i 
‘‘ Nay, I am not such an one as that,” said Bhola Mi 
I am not one to turn informer.” 

Go now, and my blessing be upon you both,” said the 
priest. • r 

Father and son rose and touched his feet, and departed. 
They make their way back again through umbrageous 

f roves and widespread .fields beneath the golden sunshine; 

ut the old man does not now look around him with satis- 
faction and delight. His eyes are fixed on the ground. 
His heart is very heavy within him. The face of the 
world has darkened. 


CHAPTER V. 

HOME LIFE. 

The first day the rush of emotion had carried everything 
before it; but when they meet again next morning, parents 
and children examine one another with curious critical 
looks, as strangers do when they meet for the first time at 
an hotel. Here there is a curious sense of familiarity and 
unfamiliarity. Their voices sound strange in one another’s 
ears. They awaken long dormant sensations; they , mingle 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


33 


the present with the past in a bewildering manner. Their 
Persons, their looks, their ways, are novel and unfamiliar. 

The greatest of the many evils of life in India to the 
English exile is the enforced separation of parents and 
children. Homes are broken up, riven in twain. To the 
wife comes the cruel choice between husband and child. 
Shall she make herself a widow, or her children orphans? 
The father and mother, if they keep together, lose the en- 
joyment of that happiest period of married life when their 
children are growing up around them, in fullest trust and 
dependence on themselves, in fullest love and sympathy, 
ere womanhood and manhood have come with their absoi b- 
ing interests. They have to forego the sacred privilege of 
forming the character of their children, and have to intrust 
that task to st’^ingers. Who shall supply to a child the 
place of a mother? Between them alone is the tie of a 
common existence; they alone are bone of one bone, and 
flesh 'of one flesh. And if the words of the flourishing ad- 
v#^rL.; ements are made true, and the place of a mother sup- 

ied to the child, that is not pleasant for the mother. It 
iS all very well to talk about natural bonds, but in order 
that they may have enduring strength, and not mere sen- 
timental recognition, they must be welded together by the 
long and intimate communion of home, with its thousand 
nameless offices of love. There must have been long years 
of familiar intercourse, of common interests, mutual love 
and kindness; care and tenderness on the one side, loving 
reverence on the’ other. Absence may make the heart grow 
fonder, but it may also bring coldness and estrangement. 
Daily communion is a very strong bond. The separated 
children may acquire habits and modes of thought not 
pleasing to the parents. The ways of the two become 
different. It is a constantly recurring tragedy, that when 
parents and children meet again, in place of the anticipated 
satisfaction, love and pride and esteem, are found disap- 
pointment, disagreement, disapprobation, disgust. The 
golden fruit does not hang so very thick on the pagoda 
tree, and it is a very upas tree to the English homes plant- 
ed under its shade. 

The sisters. have to become acquainted with the outward 
features of their new home, too. 

Come along, girls, and I will show you the horses,^^ 
«ays Mr. Keale. 


34 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


There has already been much talk of riding. One reason 
why Mr. Neale has been greatly angered by the nervous- 
ness which has been growing on his wife of late years, and 
which he holds is a. mere foolish giving way, her own fault, 
is that it has led her to give up riding, and so lost him the 
companion of his rides. The girls have appeared rather late. 

“ My dear John,^^ cried Mrs. Neale, in great agitation, 
“ the girls must not go into the sun now. Why, it is near 
eight o’clock. Make them take their parasols. No! they 
are too small; let the bearer hold the big umbrella over 
them.” 

“ What absurd nonsense! This is the month of Novem- 
ber, and not the month of May. Come along, girls.’’ 
And as they walk away together: “ Your mother will be 
for wrapping 3^ou up in cotton wool, or putting you under 
a glass shade, I expect. She is always in a state of nervous, 
apprehension. It is a pity she gives way to it so entirely. 
She does not make an effort.” 

They come to the long line of servants’ houses, with its 
swarming population, wliich at this moment is all out of 
doors. The old women are basking idly in the sun, or 
searching amid the tangled locks of boy or girl for the hid-, 
den foe, whom, when caught they slay scientifically be- 
tween the two thumb-nails. This child-mother oils heir, 
baby from head to foot, and lajs it out naked in the sun; 
she then proceeds to wash the face of her young son and 
completes his simple toilet by tying a bit of string round 
his waist. The little black infantry swarm. They pass, 
the goat-house and the cow-house and the sheep-house, the 
tealery and the quailery. The flock of goats is passing 
them 

“Y)h, you dear little thing!” cries Chloe, as she lays her 
hand on the head of a pretty little kid; “howl should 
like to have you for a pet.” 

The pretty Chloe has an indirect way of intimating her 
wishes and desires. 

“ You can have him if you like,” says Mr. Neale. 

“ You are my own, my very own, now,” cries Chloe, 
joyfully. “ I shall call him Leonidas, Mary.” 

Mr. Neale laughs. 

“ Oh, when we were at school Chloe used to call all her 
white mice by names out of the Grecian history — Themis- 
tocles> Sophocles, Miltiades,” 


35 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

A great barking and whining indicates their approach to 
the kennels. The dogs are let loose, and come frolicking 
and frisking around them. 

Bring out the pups,"^ says Mr. Neale to the sweeper; 
and he brings out a couple of little creatures, who, with 
their little eyes, turned-up noses, round bodies, and shaggy 
coats, look like young bears — they are a cross between the 
Newfoundland and the Himalayan sheep-dog — and lays 
them on the ground. 

‘‘ Oh, what comical, darling little creatures cries 
Chloe, turning one of them over with the tip of her sweet 
little foot. 

“ They are the sons of Juno, whose father was Pompey. 
You remember, Mary?^^ 

“ Yes.^' 

‘‘ What a nice Little dog to have exclaims Chloe, press- 
ing on the tender little stomach. 

“ They will grow up good dogs, I think,'^ says Mr. 
Neale. 

“ It would be so nice to feed it and bring it up,^' solilo- 
quizes Chloe. ‘‘ I should keep it always with me, and it 
should sleep at night at the foot of my bed. One could not 
keep a kid in the house. 

“ Do you want one of the pups?^^ says Mr. Neale, some- 
what shortly. 

‘‘ Oh, yes, father, cries Chloe, eagerly. 

“ What! with the kid?'"’ 

Oh, well,’^ savs Chloe, reluctantly; “ I could give up 
the kid. 

“ You may have them both, if you like.^^ 

“Oh, thank you, father. And I will take that one,'' 
she adds, promptly, pointing to the one Mary has taken up 
and holds in her hands. 

“You can not have that one," says her father. 

“ Why not?" asks Chloe, pouting. 

“I have promised first choice to Dacres." 

“ Who is he?" 

V A young fellow in the regiment at Hajigunje." 

But I like this one." 

“ I can not help that." 

“lam sure Mr. Dacres would not mind my taking this 
one. " 

“ How can you be sure?" 


36 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


Ohloe smiles a self-confident smile: 

“ Shall we see Mr. Dacresr^^ 

‘‘Of course/^ 

“ Soon?^^ 

“ Very soon, I expect/^ says her father, with a smile. 

Pretty Chloe blushes. 

‘* I will ask him to let me have this one and take the 
other himself. 

“ If he agrees, it will be all right. 

Mary Neale has been fondling the little pup with a 
curious smile on her face. She has apparently no personal 
concern in the matter — really a deep one. 

The law has been for Chloe to fondle her pets, and for 
Mary to feed them. Without her they would have run a 
considerable chance of “ perishing of inanition. 

They move on to the stables; the five horses are out in 
the open air being groomed; there are a pair of driving 
mares, and three riding horses, or rather two horses and a 
pony. Mary^s heart beats high with excitement. To have 
a horse of her own has been “ the dream and ambition of 
her life. Which one is she to have? 

“ Vanderdecken is my own horse, says Mr. Neale, 
pointing to a tall, slashing-looking Australian, “ and I 
bought Selim,^^ pointing to a pretty little Arab — a bay, 
with black points, a beautiful specimen of his beautiful 
race; mark the sweet, strong head, the square jaw, fine 
muzzle, full nostril, large eye; the deep shoulder, straight 
back, broad buttock, flowing tail, the long elastic pastern 
and flat cannon bone — “ for your mother; but since she 
has allowed this foolish nervousness to grow upon her she 
has given up riding him. I will make him over to you, 
Mary. ” 

Mary^s heart gives a great bound. She can only gasp 
out, ‘‘ Oh, thank you, father!’^ but he sees the deep delight 
and thankfulness in her wonderful brown eyes. 

“ And Curly is for you, Chloe,' ^ pointing to the pony. 

Curly, so called from his coat, is an excellent beast; has 
carried his heavy master up and down the steepest moun- 
tain roads (he is a hill pony) without slip or slide or stum- 
ble; gentle, sure-footed, hard-working; an honest beast; 
but he has not the gift of beauty; his long body, short legs, 
very thick neck and huge head give him a general resem- 
blance to a pig. He is ugl}^ 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. P>7 

“ He is SO low/^ says Chloe, with dissatisfaction. 

“ Ponies generally are/’ says Mr. Neale, rather dryly. 

“And so ugly/^ says Ohloe. 

“ Hill ponies are not cut like English racers. He is a 
handsome enough pony of his kind. He cost a lot of 
money. He is as quiet as a cow and as strong as an ele- 
phant. He is up to great weight. 

“ Then, papa dear,^^ says Ohloe, in her pretty, coaxing 
way, “ as Mary is so much heavier than I am, why not give 
her Curly and let me have the Arab?^"’ 

Poor Mary^s heart sunk within her. If Chloe wants 
Selim she must, of course, resign him to her. This has 
been the rule of the past. But has she not desired to live 
the ideal life? willed that self-sacrifice should be the law 
with her? so she says, though not without a struggle. - 

“Oh, yes! Let Chloe have Selim, father. Curly will 
do very well for me.^^ 

“ No,^^ says'Mr. Neale, sharply. 

He is displeased. He has almost a sort of sensation that 
his sweet, pretty little daughter has shown herself some- 
what grasping and selfish. You see he was not used to her 
ways. If constant living together does not reconcile us to 
the defects of others, it at all events accustoms us to them. 

They do not come on us with the shock of surprise. AVe 
recognize them as a part of their nature, a necessary condi- 
tion of their existence, without which they would cease to 
be. 

“ Selim belongs to you. I have given him to you. Be- 
sides/^ he adds, in a milder tone, “ though Selim has not a 
particle of vice in him, he is high-spirited and excitable, 
and wants a cool head and light hand on his back, especial- 
ly when he is fresh or with other horses; he is often at such 
times somewhat difficult to ride. I understand that Chloe 
is somewhat a timid rider. That would not do for Selim. 
Any tugging at his tender mouth would drive him frantic. 
In fact, your mother would be in a constant state of trem- 
bling fear if Chloe were to ride Selim, and that settles the 
matter. I have quite enough of her terrors as it is.’"" 

(The latter part of this speech iars on Mary^s ear.) 

At this moment the curry-coniD being passed somewhat 
sharply across his stomach, Selim puts back his ears and 
lashes out. Chloe does not like the look of this. She likes 
displaying her bewitching figure on horseback, but she does. 


38 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

not like to run the risk of any damage to that figure; in 
fact, she is generally more happy when she gets off a horse 
than when she gets on. So she says, looking at Selim, 
dolefully. 

“ I am afraid he would be too spirited for me. I hope 
Mary may not meet with an accident. But he is very 
ugly,^^ she adds, looking at Curly. 

“I will not have you abuse Curly,^^ cries Mr. Neale. 
‘‘ He has done me splendid service. He is a first-class pony 
of his kind. But while first-class in the hills, he is,^ no 
doubt, somewhat heavy in hand down here on the plains; 
so I tell you what I jvill do. You ride Curly now, and I 
will get you another horse as soon as I can.^^ 

‘‘ A nice, quiet, pretty little horse, cries Chloe. 

“ A nice, quiet, pretty little horse,^^ says Mr. Neale; 
mimicking her as near as he can. 

They wander through the extensive grounds. They are 
very thickly wooded, with the usual mango, neem, and 
sheeshiim, wild cotton, and other trees. Here is a pretty 
combination — by the side of this huge banyan, a little wood 
in itself, with its somber foliage, has spread a line of 
slender palm-trees, with their light-green plumes. Here 
stands a gigantic specimen of the sacred fig-tree, demon- 
haunted, its giant bole girt round with many a votive 
thread. The grounds are alive with birds — parrots stream 
overhead in devious, chattering flight; the hoopoes thrust 
their long, curved beaks into the soft mould; as the brown- 
backed mynas rise up from the ground, the flashing of 
their white under-wings is like a sudden smile on a stern 
face; the painted wings of the jay glitter in the golden sun- 
light; the seven sisters rustle under the bushes; the gor- 
geous scarlet woodpecker clings to the trunk of the decay- 
ing mango; there are robins and wrens and thrushes, hum- 
ming-birds with bright, mett^llic wings. The: trees are mu- 
sical with the soft cooing of doves. They hear many a 
pretty note and trill, among them that of the bulbul, who 
has been as unduly depreciated as he has been overpraised. 
They pass into the inclosed garden, with its long, straight, 
formal walks, which, after the manner of the East, is 
planted with forest-trees as well as fruit-trees — trees that 
are good for shade, as well as trees that good for fruit — is 
a mixture of flower-garden, kitchen-garden and orchard, 
and enjoy its fragrant freshness. The orchard is thickly 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


39 


planted with oranges, now laden with golden fruit, sweet 
limes, shaddocks, pomegranates, guavas, loquats, mangoes, 
while the plantains, by the water-course running from the 
well, wave their long leaves in the air and form a line of 
beauty. 

“ We ought to have some cauliflowers soon and I hope to 
give you a dish of pease on Christmas-day,^' says Mr. Neale. 

But now the bearer comes running out with a huge um- 
brella, and says that Mrs. Neale is most anxious that they 
should return to the house. 

The day is passed in the delightful task of unpacking 
their boxes, and many a hat and bonnet does the fond 
mother make the girls try on. The evening is passed 
again chiefly in talk. Mrs. Neale has not as yet heard 
anything like enough of her son Tom. But they become 
acquainted with one another's musical abilities and vocal 
powers also. Mrs. Neale herself is a very good musician, 
and has sung well, too, though now her voice has lost much 
of its power. She is delighted to find that both her daugh- 
ters “ sing and play very well,^^ really possess, the musical 
faculty, and have good voices, not always the case with 
young ladies with regard to whom that expression is used. 
Mr. Neale sings, too, in a bold, strong, rattling style. We 
speak of the “ silent tomb, of “ the silence of the grave 
but the old mausoleum is full of the sound of. music and 
song. ’ The reunited parents and children find themselves 
bound together by the chains of harmony. Again has the 
clock chimed the midnight hour ere they have wished good- 
night, and kissed and parted. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE NEWS OF THE ARRIVAL. 

When, at the end of the last century, the gallant East 
Indiaman, “ John Hungerford or “ John Shore,^^ sailed 
up the muddy Hooghly, and cast anchor off Calcutta, she 
was immediately boarded by all the unmarried men of the 
place, eager to inspect the first consignment of youth and 
beauty from the West. Then appeared in the various local 
journals announcements such as these: 

^‘Arrivals . — In the East Indiaman ‘ John Shore ^ (Cap- 
tain Josiah Hopkins), Miss Susannah Lucretia Smith, niece 


40 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


to our respected fellow-citizen^ 8ir Butterworth Smith — a 
beauty and a fortune.’^ 

They tell a story of those days, that in a certain province 
lived a lady ‘ ‘ remarkable alike for the charms of her mind 
and of her person. ” The moment the long-expected and 
anxiously looked for demise of her husband, old Brigadier 
Currie, took place, her admirers started for the station in 
v/hich she resided from every part of the province; the 
gallant Captain Coote of the local Legion, the 1st Burkun- 
dazes, descended the Chumbul in a boat, regardless of 
shoals and rapids; Mr. Commissioner Swaiue started in a 
palanquin carried by fifty bearers, whom he urged on with 
a lavish expenditure of backshish, bamboo, and pecuniary; 
some came on horseback, some in rude vehicles drawn by 
bullocks; but it was the man who rode a hundred miles on 
a camel without dismounting who was the first to find him- 
self at the widow^s feet — ^blissful position! so much nicer ' 
than sitting — and win her just-freed hand. Those days 
are past. The Indian matrimonial market is no longer 
what it was. It is beginning to be overstocked. Com- 
munication with England is now more easy and cheap. 
But the more strongly the stream of young women desirous 
of marrying sets one way, the more strongly does the stream 
of young men desirous of marrying set the other. Men 

go home to seek for wives. But the time of which we 
write was a middle period between the dearth of the first 
days of our occupation and the present superabundance. 
The hill stations then made a very fair, but not too large 
as now, muster in the season. Still there were small sta- 
tions, in which the appearance of a young English girl was 
as rare as are the visits of angels. Her coming made a 
sudden sunshine in the place. To the men it brought hope 
of that love and courtship and marriage which to every true 
man must be the great object of his life; chance of delivery 
from courses they abhorred, but into w^hich they were hur- 
ried by. the very strength of their manhood — delivery from 
that dread struggle between their higher and their lower 
natures, which forms a hidden, tragic history in the lives of 
most men — hope of being lifted into a higher and a nobler 
life. 

The third morning after the arrival of the sisters, the 
same three Englishmen — Monk, Steele, Dacres— are seated 


THE TOUCHSTONE OE PEEIL. 41 

by the side of the cliota hazree (little breakfast) table in the 
veranda of the niess-ho^se. The “ coffee-shop is an in- 
stitution, and the usual morning rendezvous of the whole 
station. They are not now in uniform, but in their ordi- 
nary morning attire of blouses and jumpers. There is a 
clatter of hoofs, and a horseman sweeps up the long avenue, 
and pulls up by the side of the verandav The acclamations 
that greet him indicate a popular member of the com- 
munity. 

‘‘ How are you, Chota?'^ shouts Dacres. “ Glad to see 
you back again.-’’ 

How are you, Chota, my son?” cries Colonel 
Monk. 

This young gentleman occupies the lowest position in 
the local official hierarchy, and so the natives, as usual, 
call him the Ghota Sahib, the Little Gentleman, just as 
they term the officer who occupies the highest position in 
it the Burra Sahib, the Bi^ Gentleman; and as the young 
fellow happens to be small in person also, “Chota,” or 
the “ Little Tin,” has come to be his local nickname. He 
has a gay, bright face. It seems to proclaim that the future 
is as full of hope as the present of happiness. All is indeed 
well with the lad. He belongs to a family which has held 
the highest position in India for many generations back, 
whose members have annexed and ruled many kingdoms. 
He belongs to the “ Service,” which then formed one huge 
brotherhood. He belongs to that great Indian civil service 
which secures him an ample income for life, affords him a 
noble career of usefulness; may prove the path-way to 
great riches, distinction, and honor. He is a ruler in the 
land. He may marry as early as he likes, and the number 
of his children need not distress him! Provision has been 
made already for his probable widow and his possible chil- 
dren. He is strong and healthy. And he is two-and- 
twenty. We old fellows may square the shoulders that are 
beginning to stoop, twirl tire mustache that is getting so 
gray, step out bravely on our shrunk shanks; but youth is 
youth, and in our lives, as in the year, there is but one 
springtime. The path-way of life lay bright and shining . 
before the lad; the chasm that ran across it — so near, nar- 
row, and deep as the grave — unseen, un thought of. 

“ How is Cavalier?” cries Colonel Monk. 

“ In great feckle,” says young Bird — his full name is 


'42 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

Sulivan Combermere Mangles Bird — as he dismounts from 
the fine, tall horse so named. 

As he walks into^the veranda he, with his round face, 
compact little figure, buckskin breeches, and boots, brings 
into it a distinct whiff of the far-off Newmarket air. 

“Are you going to let the light of your countenance 
shine upon us for long, Chota?^^ asked Dacres. 

“ Not for long. 1 am off again the day after to-mor- 
row.^’ 

“ You have become quite a Khana hur dosh ” (wand- 
erer), says Colonel Monk. 

“ This business of looking after the kids keeps me on 
the move,” replies the young fellow. 

All those present know, of course, that the duties of the 
members of the Indian civil service are curiously multifar- 
ious, but this pastoral occupation seems to puzzle some of 
them. 

“ Looking after the kids,” says Captain Steele. 

“ I mean the infanticide business; I am on special in- 
fanticide duty. ” 

A milder clatter of hoofs; ‘another horseman comes 
sweeping, in a small way. up the avenue — a square-built, 
middle-sized man, on a very small pony; but he sits him, 
body bent forward, hands well down, as if he were riding a 
Derby winner at the finish. Arrived before the veranda, 
he pulls up with the well-squared elbows, though the pony 
is quite ready to stop of his own accord, and then waits un- 
til the syce has come up and passed the end of his cotton 
rope through the ring of the bridle; then dismounts sol- 
emnly and slowly, walks solemnly and. slowly into the 
veranda, seats himself solemnly and slowly in a chair. He 
sits squarely in it. Everything about him is sqaure— -his 
forehead, his chin, his boots, his necktie. These are in- 
dicative of the method of his life; there are no curves or 
devious windings in itVit is all on the squai*e. Taking 
each day, in this square is the writing of his diary; in this 
square the taking of his accounts. Taking the years, in 
this square is to be marriage, in that square sending his 
wife and children home; in that other, retirement from the 
service. 

This young gentleman’s life — he looks about thirty —is 
made up of facts and not of fancies. He sees everything 
in a dry light. A “primrose by the river’s brim,” a 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 43 

“ yellow primrose was to him/^ and most certainly “ was 
nothing more. A woman was a person of the opposite 
sex; two and two make four. He was not one of those 
foolish persons who learn only from their own hard-bought 
experience; he did not neglect those maxims which embody 
the experience, of others. Procrastination is the thief of 
time;’^ “ he that goes a borrowing goes a sorrowing a 
penny saved is a penny earned;^ ^ “ a fool and his money 
are soon parted. Some might say this was the best piece 
of poetry ever written; some' might say that, but according 
to him, the finest couplet ever penned was that one begin- 
ning, “ Early to bed—^/ 

You came up the avenue at a tearing pace. Bob, 
says the old colonel. 

This square-built young man^s Christian names are The- 
odore Augustus; but, as his surname is Sawyer .and he is a 
doctor, it has followed as a matter of course — much to his 
annoyance — that he should be called Bob. 

‘‘Like death on the pale horse, says Captain Steele. 
The pony is a cream-colored one. 

“ Motee was running away with me. He ran away from 
the corner by the racket-court. We almost ran over an 
old woman. 

“ She must have been a very old woman indeed, a regu- 
lar old hurliia " (crone), cries Colonel Monk, laughing. 

“ Not so very old.^^ 

“ Perhaps you have had her in hospital under you. 
Would account for her getting out of your way so fast,-’^ 
says Captain Steele. 

“Not that I know of,^’ says Dr. Sawyer, solemnly. 

“ Have you cut your fingers pulling at the pony. Bob?"” 
says Dacres. “ You have a lot of blood on your cuff. 

“ No, not that. Took a young woman ^s left breast off; 
her first child; a most beautiful operation. I will de- 
scribe — 

“Gag him! strangle him! knock him off the chair 
cries Colonel Monk. 

Dr. Sawyer is an enthusiast in his profession; he is fond 
of describing his operations with a minuteness of detail that 
makes his listeners feel as if they were undergoing them. 

“ I suppose your camp is near Hajigunj^Factory, Bird?^^ 
says Colonel Monk, turning to the young fellow with a 
smile. 


44 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


‘‘No/’ 

“ But soon will be.” 

“ No — why?’^ asks Bird, looking puzzled. 

“ What. Have you not heard the news? Did not Da- 
cres write and tell you? I see. Like a true sportsman, he 
has kept the khubur (information) to himself. ” 

^^^N\i^ikhubur?^^ 

“Look at Bob’s lovely new necktie! Do you not see 
that Dacres has his European suit on? Why, even Steele 
is thinking of ordering a hew suit of clothes — if he can 
alford it.” 

Captain Steele has on a very ragged suit. 

“ What is it all about?” says Sulivan Bird. 

“ I suppose what the colonel is driving at,” says Dacres, 
“ is that Neale’s two daughters have arrived.” 

“ Have they, indeed? Has any one seen them? What 
are they like?” 

“ I got a letter from Tomkins of the 10th at Cawnpore. 
He saw them there. He says they are very pretty, one of 
them especially— a girl with light hair and pretty blue eyes, 
and a fine complexion. He raves about their figures. ” 

“ I know the sort of thing,” cries old Monk; “ white 
complexion, red cheeks, blue eyes, flaxen hair — all like 
those of a China doll — your flesh-and-blood English girls; a 
figure built up out of beefsteaks — large, white shoulders, 
huge bust.” 

“ You prefer the women of the East, colonel?” says 
Major Zouch, a new arrival, as he seats himself. 

Dacres and Steele smile. ^ 

“ Of course I do. I prefer black eyes to blue, black hair 
to red. What liquid eyes the women of India have; what 
beautiful figures, unspoiled by stays; what small hands and 
feet! Of course I prefer the orange to the apple. Imagine 
comparing a Scotch girl to a Spanish woman! Ram! 
Ram ! There is no comparison — none whatsoever. ” 

“ Scotchwomen make excellent wives,” said Dr. Sawyer. 
“ They are prudent, thrifty, hard-working, healthy, and 
strong. Health is one of the first things — a primary con- 
dition in the choice of a wife.” 

“ The Miss Neales are not stout,” said Major Zouch, 
quietly, “ though one of them has rather a full figure; the 
younger one is as slender as a sylph. ” 

This Major Zouch has a long, dreamy face, with the or- 


45 


THE TOUCHSTONE »F PEEIL. 

gans of ideality largely developed, strangely in contrast 
with the square-browed, square-cut, prosaic face of Dr. 
Sawyer. 

‘‘ What! have you seen them already, you sly dog?^^ ex- 
claims Colonel Monk. 

“ What! have you seen them?'^ 

“What! have you them? exclaim Dacres and Bird 
in one breath. 

“ Yes, I have seen them,^^ says Major Zouch, with pro- 
voking calmness. He is a married man. 

“But what are they like, man?^^ 

“ Both exceedingly pretty lady-like girls. The elder one 
is clever; has read the ‘ Peninsular War. ' I talked to her 
about it yesterday. We were out at the factory, my wife 
and I; went out to tiffin, stayed to dinner.^-’ 

Major Zouch has a “ bee in his bonnet,^^ like the im- 
mortal knight of La Mancha, whom he much resembles in 
figure and countenance. He is always carrying on imagi- 
nary sieges, and conducting imaginary battles, not only on 
paper, but in the field. He has often attacked and as 
often defended, the town of Hajigunje; has had many an 
engagement in its neighborhood. Jomini^s “ Art of War 
and Napier’s “ Peninsular War ” are his two favorite books. 

“ Both of them played and sung after dinner, and did 
both very well, ” he adds. 

Ram! Ram I Seeta. Ram Colonel Monk. 

“Now you young fellows are done for. Handsome, clever, 
lady-like, sing and play well! It is all over with you. I 
know what will happen now. Eide with them in the morn- 
ing; play croquet with them in the evening; lunch with 
them; dine with them. No more rackets or billiards or 
rubber of whist for me. However, I shall amuse myself 
by watching the running in these local matrimonial stakes. 
I will back Bird at two to one. The black coat wins.” 

“ Eed is \iot a bad color to ride in,” cries Dacres, gayly. 

The women love a red coat, no doubt. But Ohota is 
worth three hundred a year, dead or alive. Then he is an 
aristocrat — one of the chosen race, of the covenant, a suck- 
ing member of council, a prospective lieutenant-governor.” 

“ We do not get such large salaries as the members of 
the civil service,"” says Dr. Sawyer, in his-solemn tones; 
“ but very fair ones; and our wives and children have pen- 
sions, and some of us have money of our own. But, apart 


40 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

from that, personal appearance and mental attainments 
must count for something too. 

Sabasli! (Bravo!) Bob/ ^ cries Colonel Monk. ‘‘Then 
you will back your good looks against Bird^s good pay; 
your mental attainments against his position. When I look 
at you, Bob, I do not think I can give two to one on Bird. 
But I will, in chicks, for the sake of sport. Watching the 
running will be such fun — Bird with his prospects, and 
Dacres the lady-killer; and you. Bob, with your good looks 
and intellect. Steele may come in as the dark horse, lie 
has probably most of one of the qualifications you mention 
— money put by. 

“ Please leave my name out,^^ says Captain Steele. “ I 
know you are only joking, colonel; but for us to make any 
such bets as that would be a gross piece of impertinence 
toward these girls. It implies that they are ready to marry 
any one of us — an unwarranted presumption. 

“What! already entering the lists in their favor; al- 
ready constituting yourself their champion!’’' cries (Jolonel 
Monk. 

“ I see no reason," said Dr. Sawyer, “none occurs to 
me, why any girl in India should not marry any one of us 
who chooses to ask her. There is nothing to object to in 
our persons!" he adjusted his hair a little, “ or our char- 
acters, our positions, or our means." 

Captain Steele seemed to be about to make some caustic 
remark, when the course of the conversation was turned by 
Dacres exclaiming, excitedly: 

“ Why should we not have a festive week at Christmas, 
colonel? Ask the people from Murdapore over, and chal- 
lenge them to play us at rackets and billiards — we could 
have a croquet tournament and a ball. We might even 
have a day's racing." 

This proposal had so great an interest for almost every 
one present that Colonel Monk's half -jesting, half-serious 
offer was at once forgotten. It was soon determined that a 
festive week there should be, and they enter on an animated 
discussion of the arrangements, the important subject of 
ways and means being the first to occupy their attention. 
Captain Steele alone does not seem to take much interest 
in the matter. He rises from his chair and saying, “ Good- 
morning," calls for his horse. It is a tall, gaunt steed. 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OE PERIL. 47 

whose ribs are painfully prominent When ho has ridden 
away Colonel Monk looks after him, aud says, 

“ He is always riding the high horse. He was annoyed 
by my remark about his having money put by. He does 
not like any allusion to that He ought to buy himself a 
new suit of clothes, and he certainly ought to spend some- 
thing more on the feeding of that poor old horse. 


CHAPTEE VII. 

VISITORS. 

This was the missive Mrs. Neale read out one morning 
*t breakfast: 

“ My DEAR Mrs. Neale, — If perfecthi convenient to 
Mr. Neale and yourself, H’Oourcy and I will drive out and 
have tiffin with you to-day. I am dying to see the dear 
girls of whom I have heard so much. I am dying also to 
see their di^esses. I am afraid they will throw our dingy 
old things completely into the shade. I said so to Mrs. 
Dyke at the band last evening, but she said her dresses al- 
ways were of the newest fashion, and straight out from 
Paris. Lucky woman! I am obliged to have mine made 
at home by the dirzee (tailor), though I think the dirzee 
^can make them pretty well if you only give him a good 
pattern. Everything turns on My sister at Mooltan 

has sent me up such a lovely piece of silk, and I do hope I 
shall be able to make it into a nice dress. There is, I as- 
sure you, the greatest possible excitement in the station 
about the new arrivals. ' The* young men are wild to see 
them. 

“ AVith kindest regards^o A??, yours very sincerely, 

Letitia D^Courcy Zouch. 

“Hajig^IsJE, Kcfterriber 1857 ,” 

I consider Mrs. Zouch a very nice, sensible, clever 
woman, John,^^ is Mrs. Neale^’s comment. 

“ Clever enough,’’^ snorts Mr. Neale; “ and sensible too. 
Very. Do you not see what she wants.^^^ 

“ She wants very much to see the girls. I knew she 
would. ** 


4<S THE TOUCHSTONE OE PEKIL. 

‘ ‘ And their dresses. 

But Mrs. Zouch has pleased Mr. ^Neale, as well as his 
wife and daughters. And though his voice is gruff, what 
he says is, 

‘‘We can not tell her not to come to lunch; ask them to 
come to dinner too, and sleep the night. 

“ L^Allegro, and II Penseroso/’ tliinksMary, when Mrs. 
Zouch and her husband first enter the room. She indeed 
looks “ buxom, blithe, and debonair;'^ and he “ sober, 
steadfast, and demure. 

Then, when she has looked longer at the long, thin face, 
the sunken cheeks, the pointed nose and chin, the bristling 
mustache, the retreating forehead, marked the look of sur- 
prised melancholy in the eyes, she, too, recognizes the re- 
semblance, and cries “ Don Quixote to herself. 

“ Yes, his portfolio is full of plans of battles, sieges, 
campaigns — of imaginary dispatches,' ' said her father to 
her afterward. “ His great delight is to ride out on to one 
of the big barren plains near Hajigunje, and there fight a 
great battle. We have watched him. Now he orders his 
right wing to advance; now he brings up his artillery; now 
directs his cavalry to charge. He sends his aid-de-camp 
off with orders. He shouts out the words of command. 
He gallops about the field. Now he moves forward at the 
head of his victorious army. Now he rides down the line 
and thanks the men. Sometimes he carries on the siege of 
Hajigunje for months together. He will tell you that he 
has a great genius for the art of war." 

Mary soon discovers that Major Zouch resembles the 
“Ingenious Gentleman," the “Knight of the Rueful 
Countenance," in this respect also, that he has elevated a 
very commonplace little woman into a heroine of romance. 
He looks on his wife as the most beautiful, the most en- 
chanting of women; the cleverest, the wittiest that ever 
lived. Major Zouch has gone through many wonderful 
adventures with her. He has rescued her from many ter- 
rible imaginary dangers. Alas! in a few short months, 
more terrible dangers than he had ever imagined were to 
overtake her, and from these he was to have no power to 
deliver her. 

This Dulcinea is a , stout, good-looking, brisk, and active 
little woman — quite a young woman, not much older in 
years than Mary Neale, and very much younger than her 


49 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

hu&band. Her eyes and tongue are ever on the move. She 
is one of those persons whose lives are made up of observa- 
tion and comment. If you were out in the country with 
her, she would be continually exclaiming, That is E cot- 
tage — tumble-down.^" “ That is a stile — broken."" 

Mary Heale feels that Mrs. Zouch has “ taken her in,"" 
from the crown of her head to the hem of her gown, at a 
glance. 

‘‘ These are the girls, your daughters — Tall,"" she ex- 
claims as soon as she has shaken hands with them, with 
effusion. ‘‘ How well they are looking. So bright and 
fresh. English roses. There is a bit of thread on your 
dress, my dear. Hair worn simpl}/ taken back — very be- 
coming. One loses one"s hair very fast out here. Both 
somewhat taller than you, Mrs. Neale; and such very differ- 
ent styles — one dark, one fair. Are these the new jackets? 
— nice;"" and so Mrs. Zouch runs on. And as she is de- 
parting with Mrs. Neale to take off her bonnet and cloak, 
she exclaims in a far-reaching whisper, “ Quite as pretty 
as I expected. Quite. More so."" 

The luncheon is a merry meal. Mr. and Mrs. Neale 
had made their voyages to India “ round the Cape,"" but 
Mrs. Zouch and her husband had come out by the overland 
route only a couple of years before, and so between them 
and the sisters thei*e is an eager recalling of incidents, and 
comparing of experiences. “Bay of Biscay,"" “Gibral- 
tar,"" “Malta — Ices, baked monks."" “Alexandria — 
Cleopatra "s Needle."" “ Cairo — Shepherd"s Hotel, private 
theatricals, dancing on deck."" 

“And did you lose your fieart on board. Miss Chloe?"" 
asks the lively Mrs. Zouch. 

Chloe blushes; there had been certain moonlight nights. 
Mrs. Neale smiles tenderly; Mr. Neale frowns. Has hia 
little girl come to him with her heart already occupied by 
the master passion? Is his house to be merely a stepping- 
stone to her own home. 

“ Oh, no,"" says Chloe. 

After tiffin, Mr. Neale and Major Zouch go out into one 
of the verandas to smoke a cigar. The sunlight is bright, 
but not too glaring. The trees cast dark, restiul shadows. 
From where they sit they command a view of the peaceful 
country-side. The noon-day quiet broods over the land — • 
every tiling breathes of security and peace. 


50 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

More fires at Umballah/^ says Mr. Neale, as he lights 
his cheroot. The Sepoys are still in a disturbed condi- 
tion; this unquiet spirit has not yet been laid.'^ 

“No,^^ says Major Zouch, who has sunk into one of 
those huge easy-chairs peculiar to India, and laid his long, 
thin legs along its long, thin arms, indifferently, as he lets 
the smoke issue forth from his open mouth in curls and 
rings. 

“ The introduction of this new Enfield rifie has given a 
good deal of trouble. 

‘‘Yes; and why should they? We won all the great 
battles in the Peninsula with old Brown Bess."'^ 

The dream er^s eyes rest on the earthen mound or bank . 
which incloses the grounds, and immediately his imagina- 
tion begins to revel in all the details of a siege and defense 
of the factory. Little does he think how soon his idle fan- 
cies are to become stern realities; how soon his day-dream 
is to have a dread embodiment! 

Meanwhile the women-folk have hastened to the girls’ 
rooms, and are engaged in the delightful task of looking 
through their wardrobes. The joy is long and deep, for 
their outfit is a large and costly one. It would have been 
even larger and more costly, had Mrs. Neale’s orders home 
been fully attended to; had not English prudence come in 
to check Anglo-Indian lavish ness. Mrs. Neale was very 
fond of dress herself, as every woman should be; and, in 
most cases, let it be allowed, is. Then what could be good 
enough for her girls? And, to mention a secret, though 
Mrs. Neale would never have allowed a wedding-dress to 
form a part of the girls’ outfit, a thing not unknown, yet 
it had occurred to her that if they were likely to marry 
soon, as from their good looks was most probable, a very 
good outfit would furnish forth the greater part of a irons- 
seau. Of course there was no vulgar ostentation — that 
was not in the character of Mrs. Neale or her kinsfolk. 
There were cheap plain dresses, as well as costly and elab- 
orate ones. But everything was as good as good materials, 
good taste, and good workmanship through all could make 
them. There were dresses for the morning, sweet and 
simple; dinner-dresses, ball-dresses, elaborate and beauti- 
ful. There was bewitching head-gear, dainty boots and 
shoes, pretty cuffs and collars, old lace, beautiful handker- 
chiefs, 'lovely things in muslin and linen, satin and silk (I 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. ' 51 

write as a man): mantles and jackets and cloaks. In all 
these lovely things, which were so soon to be reduced to 
ashes, or distributed among the dirty hovels of the neigh- 
boring villages, the sisters, as was natural to their age and 
sex, took great pride and joy, and were delighted to exhibit 
them. Mrs. Zouch gloated over them. She hovered over 
them, passed from one to the other, like a butterfly among 
flowers. 

“You do not dress alike, I see,^^ she said. 

“ No; we are so different,^ ^ said Mary. 

“ I do n’ot like to see any one else with a dress on like 
my own,” says Chloe, who has made up her mind that 
Mrs. Zouch shall not have the pattern of a dress from her. 
Mrs. Zouch understands. When the time comes it is from 
Mary that she obtains what she wants; obtain it she does. 
Then Mrs. Neale retires to her bedroom for her usual after- 
noon lie-down. The girls (Mrs. Zouch is not much more 
than one) settle themselves down for a comfortable chat. 

“ Have you seen any of the people of Hajigunje yet?'' 
asks the youthful matron. 

“No,” says Mary. “Are there many people there? 
English people, I mean." 

“ Oh, of course: the natives do not count.” 

“Not very many,” she goes on. “We have only half 
our regiment here, the other half is at Afatnagar. We 
have five officers here. Then there is the usual staff of 
civilians — the collector, the joint-magistrate, the assistant- 
collector." 

“ What funny names,” says Ghloe. 

“ YYs — sounds like rates and taxes; but very different 
people these. Shall I describe the people of the station to 
you?” 

“ Oh, do!” cried both the sisters, in a breath. 

“ To begin with, the civilians, as they are the swells. 
The collector is Mr. Dyke, a very nice man, a thorough 
gentleman. The only thing against him is that he gives 
in too much to his wife. Then there is Mrs. Dyke — ” 

“ Do you count her among the civilians?” asked Mary, 
laughing. 

“ She counts herself so, very much so, indeed. She is 
our hurra mem, that means big lady. She is the head of 
the society here. She is very pompous and proud. We 
call her the Begum. Mr. Hastings Clive, the joint mag- 


r*)^ THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

istrate, lost his wife a few months ago; he is going home 
soon, and intends remaining out in camp until he does so; 
most probably you will not see him, so I will- say nothing 
about him. Sulivan Bird is the assistant — stunt, the na- 
tives call it — a very nice young fellow. All the men call 
liim Chota,^^ and she explains why. 

Such a nice, jolly boy; so full of life. He is the catch 
of the station; three hundred a year, dead or alive — good 
pay, good position, good pension; you look out for him. 
Miss Mary. - 

“ Pay, position, pension, are these the chief 'things to be 
looked for in a husband?^^ cries Mary, scornfully; “ the 
things to marry for?^^ 

Quite as good things as a red coat or a fine pair of 
whiskers. Your mother will probably tell you so. Miss 
Mary, and you had better take her advice. 

“ My mother would never-*-she is not a match-maker. 

‘‘ Why should she not be: Fathers do their best to settle 
their sons in the world; why not mothers their daughters?^ ^ 

I would rather you did not give personal application to 
your remarks. 

Mrs. Zouch laughed. 

Has a temper — thought so,^^ she says to herself, and 
then rattles on. 

“Bird is a very good fellow, though small; and a girl 
might go further and fare worse than marry him. Now 
we come to the officers of 'the regiment. First, there is 
Colonel Monk. 

“ Is he a bachelorp^ asks Chloe. 

“ No, not quite. ” 

“ A married man?^^ 

“ Not exactly. 

“ Not a bachelor and not a married man! Is he a wid- 
ower then,^’ said Chloe, looking puzzled. 

“ The fact is,^* said Mrs. Zouch, “ he has a native wife, 
and as she is not a Christian, he is not exactly married to 
her, though he holds he is, and he and the Tara-Bhai have 
lived together for thirty years, and are very much devoted 
to one another. She is a very superior woman and of good 
family. She is with her own people just now.^^ 

Marking the look of reprobation on Mary Neale’s face, 
Mrs. Zouch hurries on. 

“ Colonel Monk is a very nice old man, very kind-heart- 


THE TOUCH STOKE OF PERIL. 


53 


ed and generous, and so courteous. He has seen a great 
deal of service, has heaps of medals, is a C.B. He prides 
himself on his (ihutney.'’^ 

‘^What a thing for a man to pride himself on!” says 
Mary. 

“ After him comes my husband. D’Courcy is a very 
good fellow — though I says it as shouldnH, as the com- 
mon people say — when he does not let his head go wool- 
gathering about battles and sieges. After H^Courcy comes- 
Oaptain Steele. He has only just joined us. I do not like 
him at all; he is so stingy and miserly; starves his horse and 
wears such bad clothes. Is a self-opinionated prig. I am 
very fond of laughing and joking, but when I say any- 
thing funny he looks at me and rubs the tip of his long, 
thin nose. ■ Do not you hate a man who rubs the tip of his 
nose? I do. He has a sallow, dried-up face; I call him 
the mummy. He had to leave his last regiment. ” 

‘‘ Why?^" asks Mary. ^ 

“ He objected one night to a song that was sung at the 
mess- table, one of those songs men sing among themselves 
— improper ones.^^ 

“ But surely that was to his credit,^ ^ says Mary. 

“ It was only his conceit. There were many senior 
officers present. ” 

“ How old is he?” asks Chloe. 

About thirty or so. Imagine a man of that age a 
miser I’ ^ 

‘‘ Avarice is the vice of old age; generosity better be- 
comes a young man; I hate a niggard, says Mary, sen- 
tentiously. 

“ Well, Percy Daores, who comes next, is the very re- 
verse; he is very open-handed and generous, perhaps too 
much BO. You will have to take care of your hearts there, 
my dears. He is a perfect lady-killer. He is very hand- 
some, dances very well, rides very well, plays croquet 
beautifully. The girl will be very lucky who marries him. 

‘‘ How old is he?” asks Chloe, with assumed indifference. 

‘‘ Eive-and-twenty — just the right age,” looking at 
Chloe, significantly, and dyeing her cheeks, L e., Chloe^s 
cheeks, crimson. 

The only other officer with us here is Doctor Sawyer, 
whom they all call Bob in the regiment; he always looks so 
solemn that I call him the owl. But he is a very good 


54 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

doctor, a very clever surgeon. lie performs the most 
wonderful operations, and will tell you all about tbem.^^ 

‘‘ I hope not,” cries Chloe, with a pretty little shudder. 
‘‘I hate wounds and sores and sickness — even to hear 
about them. 

Poor girl! 

He will tell you all about them if he can.“^^ 

It was at dinner that Major Zouch made the discovery of 
Mary Neale’s knowledge of ‘‘ The History of the Peninsu- 
lar War,” which raised her so mightily in his estimation. 
Mary has always loved to read about jousts and tourna- 
ments; battles and sieges and great sea-fights; deeds of 
dering-do; deeds of heroic valor, and still more heroic en- 
durance — never dreaming that she should ever witness and 
take part in such. And how fine a historical drama that 
great war presents; how great the actions in it; how full 
of deepest interest the various acts and scenes, the march- 
ings and counter-marchings, the maneuvering, the battles, 
the sieges! How thrilling the alternations of success and 
reverse, of good and bad fortune, on either side! How 
striking the close of it; how different from the retreat be- 
hind the throughtfully set up lines of Torres Vedras — ‘the 
triumphal march on Paris! Then in what glowing lan- 
guage is the great story told! — language which has in it the 
firm rhythmic march of the foot-soldiers, the sweep of the 
cavalry charge, the gleam of bayonets, and the flash of 
swords. 

Then Major Zouch explains to Mary the movements 
which, half a century before, had brought that part of the 
country under British sway — this wine-glass represents 
Hajigunje; that finger-bowl the renowned old fortress of 
Hatrass; the tumbler the formidable French-built fort of 
Aligarh; this knife one force, the fork another — little 
dreaming how very soon another campaign was to be need- 
ed to reconquer it. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

HOME LIFE. 

The riding-party proved a failure. Chloe and her pony 
could not keep up with the other horses, and restraint ren- 
dered them almost unmanageable. The first morning Mr. 
Neale was cross; the second morning angry; the third furi- 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. . 55 

ous; Chloe announced a bad headache when she got home; 
Mrs, Neale fell into a nervous trembling; the sun was too 
hot for Chloe; she had been up too early. 

“ The pony Jerks me/’ sighs Chloe; and so it is settled 
that these parties must be postponed until the promised 
new horse is got, and Chloe is nothing loath; she prefers 
her warm bed to a domestic riding-party. 

But with Mary and her father the early morning ride 
came to form a settled part of that routine into which their 
life soon fell, as it does always and everywhere, in sickness 
or in health, by sea or by land, in the pleasurable round of 
toil, or the toilsome round of pleasure. Routine is the law 
of nature, and some day we may come to know the routine 
of the earthquake and the falling star. Now they would 
gallop along the smooth, grassy sides of the great highway, 
where the travelers stared to see a woman sitting sideways 
on a horse, now dash across the great flat ooaur plains, and 
give exhilarating, if idle and ineffectual, chase to the an- 
telope that abounded on them. Mary Neale delighted in 
every movement of her grand little horse; his easy. Jaunty 
walk; his long, swift trot; his luxurious hand gallop, when 
she was borne along as if on the crest of a smooth, falling 
wave— the rush of his full gallop, when he seemed to de- 
vour the earth. 

On the return home comes the refreshing bath, in the 
big bathroom — of which there is one attached to ever}’’ sepa- 
rate bedroom — with its huge globular Jars of water. 
Then comes the big Indian breakfast, with its many dishes, 
of which boiled rice forms a standing one; its chupatees 
and country-captain, and koftas and kedgeree. Then the 
girls distribute and arrange the flowers, of which the gar- 
dener brings in every morning a huge, fragrant basketful 
— fair task for fair women. Then they accompany their 
mother to the godown, and see the things given out for 
dinner, and get a lesson in Indian housekeeping. Then 
come some hours in the drawing-room — reading, needle- 
work, practicing on the piano. Then comes tiffin; also a 
big meal, for Mr. Neale likes it so. Mrs. Neale then retir^ 
to her own room for her siesta, Mr. Neale returns to his 
ofiQ.ce, and the girls have the afternoon to themselves. 
Just now they pass the most part of it in writing letters 
“home.” Who that has made long voyages and gone to 
distant lands does not remember that first copious writing 


56 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


of letters, begun the first day out at sea, when we are so 
desirous to convey the strong impressions made upon us by 
novel sights and incidents to those who are still nearest and 
dearest to us, our only acquaintances, when the feeling of 
parting is still so strong on either side? Then, gradually 
the new surroundings become familiar, new friends are 
made, new relationships established; the new life swallows 
us up, the old life fades away; the letters become less copi- 
ous, less frequent, perchance cease altogether. Or the 
sisters pass these hours, book in hand, in their rooms, 
which their mother has furnished so prettily for them, in 
dreamful ease,^^ enjoying the balmy warmth of the air, 
the bright continued sunshine, the sweet odors from the 
garden. Chloe then often falls asleep, and Mary steals 
away to a secluded nook in the garden, where a seat has 
been raised in the corner between the two short remaining 
portions of the high brick wall or battlement that once 
surrounded the mausoleum grounds, where a magnificent 
giant creeper has formed a lovely natural bower. Here she 
would ensconce herself in the half-light, half-shade, while 
the gentle breeze made soft rustlings in the trees- — each 
separate tree has its own voice — and the cooing of the birds, 
in shady coverts hid, and the buzzing of the insects, filled 
the air with a soft, soothing sound; induge in a day-dream, 
vague and formless, which yet had power sometimes to 
make her smile, sometimes to sigh, oftener the latter, for 
youth loves to indulge in fanciful melancholy; note the 
various trembling of the leaves of the trees about her, the 
graceful, sinuous swaying of the long plantain leaves, the 
delicate trembling of the light mimosa leaves, the heavy 
waver of the paddle-shaped leaves of the peepul — the sacred 
fig-tree; watch the graceful movements of the pretty, little, 
familiar, striped-backed squirrels, watch theTolloping flight 
of the jays, the swift, flashing dart of the humming-bird; 
watch the fluttering flight- of the beautiful butterflies; or, 
with head thrown back^, gaze at the changing bits of sky, 
each with its own intensity of blue, seen through the sway- 
ing rifts in the foliage above her, until she loses all sense 
of her own identity, of her active consciousness. 

Let it not be thought that Mary Neale was a silly 
sentimental girl.^’ There is no reason why the two should 
be coupled together. She was sentimental inasmuch as 
she had a great deal of sensibility, but she was not silly; 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


57 


she had a great deal of that ‘‘.judgment which you will 
see given in the dictionary as one of the meanings of the 
word sentiment. 

In the evening they drive out in the big barouche^ with 
the pair of swift-trotting, “ country-bred "" mares. They 
can only drive on the Grand Trunk Road, go so far one 
way or the other, east or west along it, and then come 
back; and the scenery along the road for any fifty miles 
one way is precisely similar to that along any fifty miles 
the other; but the road is smooth, the horses fast, the air 
soft and pleasant, the flat plains around them-— village- 
crowded, grove-covered — smile with the winter harvest. 
Then comes dinner — which, with its full and orthodox 
number of courses, is each day like a “ company dinner ’ ^ 
— with its novel dishes and courses; the rosebuds or sweet- 
scented leaves floating in the finger-glasses; the barefooted, 
silent-paced, well-clad attendants, who, with their big tur- 
bans and flowing robes, look like Jewish ^priests or Oriental 
princes, such as we see them in our picture-books. And- 
after dinner they have music. Mrs. Neale plays some of 
the pieces of her favorite master, Beethoven. 8he plays 
them exquisitely. With her natural taste for music, her 
mechanical skill, her exquisite touch, her great natural 
sensibility, she would always have played well, but the cir- 
cumstances of her past life have been such as to give her 
playing a character beyond the reach of even this seeming- 
ly complete 'combination of qualifications--have' put a 
spiritual element into it. For how many thousands of 
hours has that music been her only companion, her com- 
forter.^ The many .thousands of solitary hours during 
which she has sat before her instrument, alone in the huge 
room, alone in the many-roomed house, amid the dead 
silence of the midday hours, broken by the voice of the 
music only; when the music seemed to take form and peo- 
ple those tenantless rooms,- and when for hours and hours 
afterward no other sound invaded her ear to disturb the 
lingering echoes of the lofty harmony. Through how 
many weary days of sickness and sorrow and suffering had 
that music sustained and soothed her! How often had it 
delivered her from the dread feeling of being alone! It 
had become a part of her life; she had met it soul to soul; 
she had imbibed its spiritual essences and could give them 
forth again. 


58 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


Then Mary would play some of Mendelssohn^ s ‘‘ Songs 
Without Words;"' and Chloe would play some favorite air 
from “ Pre aux Clercs/" or ‘‘ Oberon/'or “ Massaniello/" 
or Norma;" or Mary would sing a Scotch song or old 
English ballad; and then Mr. Neale would say they had 
made him too sad, and troll forth some merry drinking- 
song, or some breezy hunting-song, or some sea-song that 
had in it the heave and dash of the ocean; and then Ohlqb; 
would sing some tender, sentimental ditty, such as were in 
vogue at the time. 

Or they gather round the blazing wood-fire and talk of 
books. They discuss the poetry of Tennyson and Long- 
fellow; they recall their favorite scenes and characters in 
Walter Scott's novels, or laugh again at and with old 
Weller and Sairy Gamp and Mr. Micawber; they criticise 
the style of Macaulay, and talk of the works of Charles 
Kingsley and Carlyle. Chloe does not take much share in 
this talk, for she. was not much of a reader; was, in fact, 
somewhat of a sweet, pretty dunce. Mary was a ^reat de- 
vourer of books, and among the young ladies at Miss Good- 
child's, who derived their general knowledge chiefly from 
‘‘ Mangnall's Questions," had been looked upon as quite 
a prodigy of learning Nor was she averse to showing her 
knowledge. She and her father would enter into a hot 
discussion on some religious or political question; they both 
liked argument, and each had a firm belief in the rightness 
of their own judgment. 

It was at this hour that Mr. Neale would look round and 
think of her absent boy, the only one away from the home 
circle; and she would begin to talk about Tom, and ask 
again the questions so often asked before; and Mary, who 
loved her brother dearly, but held him for no more than 
what he was — an honest, manly, English boy — would 
marvel again at the wondrous mother's love in which that 
honest lad was transfigured and lifted above the earth. 

It was the most charming party that can be conceived; 
it had about it all the stimulating freshness of a newly 
assembled company, and all the ease and freedom of the 
home circle. The parents were happy in their children, 
the children in their parents. The former delighted in 
Chloe's gentle, winning ways, her clinging affectionateness, 
her soft dependence, her occasional pretty petulance — she 
brought back a child to the house; in Mary's stronger 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 59 

character — she had passed out of childhood and come nearer 
to themselves — in her quick intelligence and strong com- 
mon sense, her even cheerfulness and quiet humor, her 
helpful disposition, her self-possessed manner, which an 
occasional burst of enthusiasm or flash of temper showed 
was the calm of self-control, and not of dullness of mind 
or poorness of spirit. The girls delight in the overflowing 
loving kindness of their mother’s nature, which made all 
who came near her love her, and her children adore her, 
and forgive her her overmuch fearfulness. They greatly 
admire their father’s manly face and form, his air of com- 
mand; delight in his kindly care and ready sympathy, his 
eager generosity; and forgive him the occasional harsh and 
hasty word which, when addressed to themselves, made 
Chloe so frightened, and, when addressed to their mother, 
made Mary so angry. Not that these words were heard 
very often -just now; the coming of the girls had had a 
softening and restraining influence; it had reawakened and 
made more active the love between husband and wife that 
was not dead but dormant. 

'Uheir days went by as in a happy dream. They had 
about them all the material adjuncts of happiness. They 
enjoyed the elevating influence of large and loft}" apart- 
ments. Their surroundings were tasteful, and even luxuri- 
ous. The house was handsomely furnished throughout. 
Their mother had adorned their own suites of rooms with 
loving care. There were very good pictures in the house, 
of a "kind that now rarely find their way to India. There 
were plenty of books, for in those days the flood of light 
literature had not set in, and people purchased books; there 
was, in fact, a large and good library. In the central 
chamber of the mausoleum, where Shumsliere Beg lay — 
voiceless, speechless —stood around his grave the illustrious 
English dead — poets, essayists, novelists, dramatists, his- 
torians— still instructing, still' enlightening, still speaking. 
Here, in the coming months, Mary Neale passed many of 
the long midday hours that had to be spent in-doors, and 
became acquainted with many an author who before had 
been merely a curiosity of literature, a name, to her. In 
those hot, glaring days she rejoiced in the vault-like dark- 
ness and coolness, in "the dead stillness, the tomb-like quiet. 
But just now the chamber was too dim and chill, and with- 
out was the balmy scented air and the joyous sunshine. 


60 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


Then there were the large and park-like grounds and the 
delightful gardens, now beginning to be bright with the 
colors, sweet with the scent, of flowers, with their multi- 
tudinous forms of bird and insect and animal life. 

• There was the large and well-trained retinue of servants, 
obedient to their lightest behest and call. They belonged 
to the conquering race, to the superior religion- — they felt 
all the joyfulness of pride. There were the strange ways 
and manners and customs and superstitions of the people 
around them to interest and amuse them. 

Their mode of life at the factory, so long as it lasted, 
was a large and liberal one — there was in it entire refine- 
ment, a great degree of stateliness. 

Then, to crown all and make it perfect, was the bright 
and beautiful weather. It was the halcyon time of the 
year. Cold, crisp mornings; bright, cooL days; clear, 
frosty nights. One good day followed another;^ entirely 
dependable, beautiful weather; this day week will be as 
fine as to-day. Each successive day is a festal one — the 
bridal of tiie earth and sky. 

No; what crowned all and made it perfect was that love, 
the only true giver of happiness, 'sat in the midst of them. 


CHAPTER IX. 

TWO BACHELORS. 

Steele and Dacres share the same bungalow — merely 
as a matter of convenience. If there is a great deal of real 
brotherhood in military life, there is also a great deal of 
enforced camaraderie. The bungalow is one of the usual 
kind. It has a high, pyramidal, thatched roof. All the 
rooms are on the ground-floor. There are two large cen- 
tral public rooms; on each side of these are two bedrooms; 
a veranda runs round the block so forined, and is inclosed 
on the side of the bedrooms, and divided into dressing- 
rooms and bath-rooms, but left open on the other^two sides. 

This one of the two central rooms has in^t a small 
dining-table in the center, an antique sideboard with spin- 
dle legs on one side, four cane-bottomed chairs on the 
other, and with its whitewashed walls and huge barn-like 
expanse, has a very cheerless and dreary look. 

This other central room is quite bare of furniture; and 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


01 


foils, single-sticks, Indian clubs, one of them a huge pair 
which only Dacres and the professional athlete of the regi- 
ment can wield, mark the use to whiclrdt is put. If we go 
into this dressing-room on Captain Steele^s side of the 
house, its poor furnishing will serve to remind us that Mrs. 
Zouch had called him a miser. A rough trestle .serves as 
dressing-table; the comb on it wants teeth; the brushes 
present big open spaces, like a common where the furze has 
been cut; a mirror of the commonest kind to be purchased 
in an Indian bazaar hangs from a nail driven into the wall. 

And in this other room, which is used as a sitting-room 
and bedroom combined, there is only a camp-bed in one 
corner, a camp-table in the center, a couple of chairs. Its 
general bareness makes the corner in which stands a book- 
shelf filled with well-bound books — for Captain Steele is a 
Wykehamist and an Oxford man — above which hangs an 
excellent portrait (it is by Eomney) of a most beautiful 
woman — stand out as does the altar in some dusty, way- 
side Spanish chapel. 

The similar rooms on the other or Percy Dacres’ side of 
the house are much better furnished, even elegantly and 
tastefully so. He uses one room, in which is a handsome 
carpet on the fioor, a nice sofa, easy-chairs, a round table, 
on which lie many ‘‘ Keepsakes and Books of Beauty, 
and which has many colored prints — the beauties of Eng- 
land, Ireland, Scotland^ and Wales; Sherry, Sir, etc., on 
the walls, as his sitting-room. 

This other is his bedroom; beyond it comes the dressing- 
raom,. where there are pretty pink curtains to the windows, 
a pretty pink cover to the dressing-table, on which stands 
a large and handsome mirror, and many elegant cut-glass 
scent bottles, and pomatum pots with pretty faces painted 
on them. 

In all the rooms antimacassars and sofa covers, and 
cushions and embroidered slippers and smoking-caps, indi- 
cate that Percy Dacres is a great favorite with the sex that 
loves to show its devotion, heavenly or mundane, in fine 
needle-work. 

Dacres is leaning back in an easy-chair, while his bearer 
is squatted on the floor before him, taking off his boots. 

Juldee” (quick), ‘‘son of a pigl'^ cries Dacres, im- 
patiently. “ Open the laces more, son of an owl. Keep 
the foot up more, you donkey. Do not tug at the boot so. 


63 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

fool;^^ and Dacres suddenly straightens his mighty leg, 
and catching the man in the middle of his breast, tumbles 
him over flat on his back. * A terrible fear comes over 
Dacres, as the man lies before him still and motionless, 
that he has killed him, as has occurred recently to a brother 
officer in -a precisely similar manner, though from a more 
deliberate and purposed blow. The natives of India have 
an uncomfortable habit of dying when violently struck. 
However, the man has had the breath knocked out of his 
body only, temporarily, and he soon scrambles up and sets 
to work to take off the boot again. 

‘‘ Open the laces more,’^ insists Dacres, foul-fed igno- 
ramus. 

Having dressed himself, Dacres goes across to Steele^s 
room, and says: 

Will you come out with me to Hajigunje factory and 
call on tiie Neales, Steele? Sawyer was to have accom- 
panied me, but he can not get away from his returns — sick 
to strength, fevers to strength, and that sort of thing. He 
is too busy at his averages and percentages, and that sort 
of tiling.'’^ 

“ ‘ Killed to cured, ^ is the proportion he finds it most 
difficult to manage,^' says Steele, with a smile. 

“ Will you come?^^ 

“ Calling is not much in my line, but that big bare 
dining-room looked so cheerless as I was breakfasting in it 
by myself this morning — Dacres had breakfasted out — 
“ tliat I feel quite dismal — the lively Mrs. Zouch declared 
that Captain Steele always did look dismal — “ and should 
not mind a little outing. 

“ Then come along with me to the factory, you may find 
some one there who will become your breakfast companion 
for life."" 

“ I am not in a position to marry. Have not the means."" 

“ Not the means! with a captain"s pay and lots of money 
put by!"" 

Money put by!"" 

Of course you must have. I know what you spend."" 

‘VDoyour"" 

“ Of course I do. I know what the house rent is, the 
servants" wages, the mess bill, the keep of a horse. It 
does not come to lialf your pay. You must have a pretty 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 6/? 

f ood sum in the bank. But of com’se your furlough is 
ue. • 

Steele looks up at the beautiful face on the wall with a 
curious yearning look. 

No furlough for me just at present/^ he says. 

“And it is quite right to save up for one^s furlough. 
Take home a pot of money, and have a jolly good fling in 
London, and then marry. That is your hne, I suppose.?^^ 

“ Not quite,^^ says Steele, quietly. 

“ Then marry out here and make yourself comfortable; 
one of these pretty Miss Neales will do.^’ 

“Ido not like that way of talking, as if every girl is 
ready to marry any man who proposes to her. I do not 
believe it. 

Then, as if to avoid an old subject of dispute — 

“ Then, who would marry an ugly old fellow like me?’^ 
** You are not old. There is 3^our good income, and your 
position, and the pension. That is what girls look to. " 

“ Not the ones I should care to marry. 

“ You think with Sawyer,' ’ said Dacres, smiling, “ that 
personal attractions count for much." 

“ Personal liking should count for all in all. " 

“ Does it with men? Do we not think of a girl's world- 
ly advantages as well? You remember the old song — 

“ ‘ He that loves a pretty girl, 

Loves her for his pleasure; 

He’s a fool if he marry her, 

He’s a fool if he marry her. 

Without lots of treasure.’ 

Have you heard it before?" 

“ A thousand times," says Steele, with a peculiar smile. 
“But will you come out to the factory with me?" 

“ Yes; I should like the ride." 

The young men are soon out in the open country. First 
they pass through one of the richly cultivated tracts which, 
with huge barren plains and widespread sheets of water, 
make up the face of the land around them. The level 
plain extends around them as far as the eye can reach. 
The horizon is bounded by the receding lines of trees alone. 
They seem to be in an amphitheater with a green wall 
round it, wherever they go. The sunlight sparkles; there 
is a soft, refreshing breeze. Around them are the cheerful 


64 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


sights and sounds of midday labor in the fields. The men 
are singing at the wells, holding converse at long distances. 
There is the tinkling of the bells of the grazing cattle, the 
splash of the water as it descends from the huge leather 
buckets in mimic cataracts, and runs away in silver rills. 
They pass by fields of golden sugar-cane, the castor-oil 
plants surrounding which thrust their leaves into the road 
like human hands held out for alms; by cotton fields, in 
which the white wool is hanging out of the bursting pods; 
by gram fields, specked with pretty blue fiowers; and the 
wheat fields, separated only by little earthen mounds, form 
around them mile-wide stretches of tender green. They 
pass by huge umbrageous mango groves, musical with 
the tender cooing of doves, by whose side strutting peacocks 
spread out their gorgeous plumage to the sun. They pass 
by many a tall and stately and wide-branched tree;* the 
silk cotton rising with clear stem for many a yard, and 
then throwing out branches at right angles; the beautiful 
light-leafed tamarind; the rustling peepul inhabited of 
spirits; the sacred self-extending banyan, with its “ pil- 
lared aisles of shade acacias and mimosas; while here 
and there, for they are not numerous in hTorthern India, 
a palm-tree, rising with tall, perpendicular stem, seems to 
make the surrounding flatness more flat. Then they come 
to a huge flat, barren plain, where the saline efifiorescence 
crackles under the hoofs of their horses and gives forth an 
odor like that of the ocean. On this are many herds of 
antelopes. They pass close by a magnificent “ black buck,^^ 
stalking about in all the pride of his strength, his noble 
head crowned with long, twisted horns. 

“ I wish I had my rifle here,'’^ cries Dacres. ‘‘ You do 
not shoot, Steele?^^ 

“ I used to once. I had a great deal of hunting and 
shooting once. I was never a very great shot, but I have 
had many a good day among the pheasants and the par- 
tridges. 

Captain Steele leans back in the saddle, and expands his 
usually rather contracted-looking chest, and lifting up his 
projecting, thin nose, takes in a long draught of the cool, 
pure air. 

“ But if you were so fond of hunting and shooting, why 
have you given it up now? You have no guns, and keeji 
only this one old screw of a horse. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


65 


Want of means. 

‘‘ With your good pay, which you have all to yourself;"^ 
and Dacres came to a conclusion that Steele was exagger- 
ating, as men are apt to do in such matters. 

‘‘ Got a little shooting occasionally, and was out with the 
hounds once or twice, he thinks to himself. 

They leave the barren plain, and enter on another highly 
cultivated tract, and, having proceeded a short way in it, a 
pretty view presents itself. There stretches before them a 
winding lake, whose ruffled surface glitters in the golden 
sunlight; the full-breasted pelicans sail majestically about 
in the center; ducks lie still, swaying with the gentle wave; 
long-legged water-fowl stand in the shallows, with bil| held 
ready to strike; the gray ibis stand on the shore, head 
under wing, enjoying their midday sleep; here rich fields 
form a smiling margin to the lake, there frowning groves 
cast dark shadows on it; beautiful feathery palms reflect 
themselves in it; here extends a pretty masonry bathing- 
place; there rises up a picturesque temple; while at one 
end its waters run up to the foot of a green bush-covered 
mound, whose bottom is ringed by the houses of a village, 
while its top is crowned by a small fort or keep, four 
square, and with circular bastions at the corners. From 
the top of one of these bastions, as from out a gigantic 
flower-pot, a tree rises a good way up into the air. 

Most of these sheets of water' are partly natural, partly 
artificial. They have been made or extended by damming 
back or hollowing out. The excavation served a double 
purpose — the earth from it went to form a height, on which 
the village was planted, a fortalice set. In the course of 
.ages 'the hollow was deepened and extended as the earth 
was taken from it for the construction of the walls of new 
houses, for brick-making, the making of pottery. The 
mound heightened and widened as the walls of the houses 
melted away, as the ashes from the hearth and the broken 
pottery were cast out, as the winds blew up the dust upon 
it, so that some of these mounds, like the one before iis, 
have now come to be of great size, and to form a con- 
spicuous feature in the landscape. 

Looking at them you can not but tflink of the innumer- 
able layers of human hopes and fears, and joys and sorrows, 
the many strata of past manners and customs, religions 
and political systems, that have gone to make them up. 


66 the touchstone of peril. 

'Now, on the surface stand the Hindoo temple, the Mo- 
hammedan mosque, the English school; below them lies 
the Buddhist stupa; below that again the rude altar of 
some still older faith. 

“ We must ask our way out of the village. I have never 
been here before,^^ says Dacres, and they ride toward the 
mound. As they approach it they see that the old fort is 
in a very dilapidated condition. Above them is the crum- 
bling bastion, from which the tree grows out like a Brob- 
dingnagian shrub from a Brobdingnagian fiower-pot. There 
are no houses on this side of the mound; the village lies on 
the other side. They ride up the open potsherd-strewn 
slope. The place seems quite deserted. But on riding 
round* the bastion they come on a group of people. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE OLD ZEMINDAR. 

“ Why, here is a dead man,^^ cries Dacres. 

He lies on his back on a rnde bedstead; a long, lean 
man, his eyes closed, his long white beard lying flat on his 
breast, his long arms laid close by his side, his bare feet 
pointing upward, still aiid motionless; but he is not dead. 
A short way off, leaning on a bamboo stick, tending a 
couple of goats, stands a girl. She looks a child, but she 
has reached the age at which her sisters throughout the 
land, sad and shameful fact, are married. Her garments, 
the sheet depending from her head, the little bodice, be- 
ginning to. be strained, and her petticoat, are all of the 
coarsest materials; but her hands and feet are small; her 
features delicate. Under the wall of the fort sits a woman 
engaged in the usual daily task of the women of the lower 
orders, that of making cow-dung cakes for fuel; and at the 
foot of the wall, with his back against it, idly basking in 
the sun, reclines a loutish-looking lad, clad in a rough and 
ragged wadded long-coat. 

“.ffo/ boodhaT^ (Ho! old man!) cries Dacres, which 
is the way to Hajigunje Factory? Come, get up and show 
ns.^^ 

The old man had opened his eyes. He now turns his 
head, but makes no reply. 

Dacres moves up closer to the bedstead, until his horse’s 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 67 

nose is almost touching it, and then bending forward and 
looking down on the old man, calls out again: 

“ Here, old fellow! get up and show us the way to the 
indigo factory. You know; the indigo factory where Mr. 
Neale lives. Do you not hear me?'^ he calls out more 
loudly, as the old fellow gazes up at him quietly, but takes 
no further notice of his demand. “Are you deaf?^^ he 
shouts. 

“ What do you want?’^ said the recumbent figure, in a 
voice, which was startlingly strong, issuing from the skele- 
ton-like body. 

“We want you to show us the way to Hajigunje Fac- 
tory."" 

“Go to the village sweeper, and he will show you the 
way."" 

“ What!"" thundered Dacres, “ go to the village sweep- 
er! Dare you tell me to go to the village sweeper, you in- 
solent old scoundrel! Get up at once and show us the way, 
or I will make you jump;"" and he holds out his whip over 
the old man. 

The skeleton is galvanized. The old man raises himself 
up, and throws his long, fleshless legs over the side, of the 
bed with amazing quickness. This sudden movement, 
close under his nose, so frightens Dacres" horse that he 
starts back violently and nearly displaces his rider. Dacre 
does not lose his seat, but he does his temper. He becomes 
furious with rage. He gives his horse a sharp cut with the 
whip, and digs his heels into his sides, and urges him on 
toward the bedstead. 

By this time the old man has risen to his feet; he is an 
exceedingly tall man, and looks the taller because of the 
skeleton-like spareness of his frame. His white hair falls 
down almost to his shoulders, his white beard to his waist. 
Steele has witnessed the energetic uprising of the old man 
with wonder and surprise; it was not merely that the corpse, 
the skeleton had become imbued with life, but with so 
much life. The late lack-luster eyes now gleam brightly, 
and show how fierce a spirit still animates the aged frame. 

Dacres has not been able to get his horse quite close dp 
to the old fellow, but still he is so close that by leaning 
well forward in his saddle he can reach him with his whip. 
He bends forward, and is about to deliver a cut across the 
old man"s shoulders, when the graybeard catches up a 


68 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

bamboo club that is leaning againsrthe bedstead, and call- 
ing out, in the deep, strong voice that is so much at vari- 
ance with his lank frame, “ Take care; do not touch me, 
or it will be the worse for you,^^ swings it up into the air. 

Dacres reins back his horse; he knows what lethal 
weapons these Indian clubs are, but he does so almost 
more from surprise, that a native should dare to offer re- 
sistance to an Englishman! that he should not take his 
beating kindly I He is also startled at finding so old a man 
so fierce and vigorous. But this first shrinking back only 
makes his anger burn up the more furiously. He gathers 
up his reins, and Steele sees that he is about to make a 
rush at the old man; he sees likewise that the loutish lad, 
too, has jumped up, and, laying hold on another bamboo 
club, has run forward, shouting, What is this? Who is 
beating my father? and that there is every chance of a 
srious encounter. He sets spurs to his horse, and dashing 
forward he seizes Dacres’ horse by the bridle, and backing 
him, calls out, Take care, man! What are you about to 
do?” 

“ Let go the reins,” cries Dacres, fiercely. Dare he 
threaten me with his club! By God, ITl flay him alive.” 

‘‘Eor shame! You would not strike an old manlike 
that!” 

I’ll break every single bojie in his body, by God. He 
has insulted me. Did you not hear him tell me to go to the 
village sweeper? Sweeper! the insolent old scoundrel!” 

“ The village sweeper is probably also the village watch- 
man, whose duty it is to act as guid^when wanted, and 
that is why the old man told you to goTo him. ” 

‘‘ I do not care. He shall show us the way himself. I’ll 
make him do so if I have to drag him along by the scruff 
of the neck. Let go the reins. ” 

You would not strike an old man hke that?” 

‘‘ Let go the reins!” 

“ You shall not strike him,” said Steele, letting go the 
reins, but interposing his horse between Dacres and the 
two natives. 

' Who is to prevent me?” 

I will.” 

‘‘ You?” 

Yes; if necessary, by the exercise of my authority as 
your senior officer. But look at the old fellow’s hair and 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 69 

beard! You would not strike ^white-haired, gray-bearded 
man like that!-’^ 

“ If the old fool thinks that he has frightened me with 
his club — 

‘‘^My dear fellow, he must see that you are a more 
powerful man than he. You are on. horseback, he is on 
foot. Let me speak to him,^^ and he turned his horse so 
as to face the old man, who had now dropped his bamboo 
club and stood leaning on it, quiet but watchful. 

The little girl had run forward with her long bamboo 
stick in her hand, and had poured out a volley of objurga- 
tion and abuse, in her shrill childish treble. The old 
woman had only just turned her head, and had then gone 
on with her unsavory task in a mechanical sort of way, as 
if therein lay her sole concern and care in life. 

“ Who are you?’’’ said Steele to the old man. 

“ Who am Ir I am what you see me. I was the zemin- 
dar (landlord) of this village.'’-’ 

‘‘ The zemindar of this village 

“ Yes, and of half a dozen more. Mamin, Koderkote, 
Umersara, Hurchundpore — he points with his long, lean 
finger to various villages in the grove- covered plain below 
them — “ all those once were mine. 

Steele glanced toward the old woman with her hands in 
the cow-d ung. 

“ Yes, that is the condition she has^unk to now; she in 
whose bridal procession fifty elephants walked; she who 
never showed her face out-of-doors; she whose hands were 
once always stained with henna and perfumed musk.^^ 

Steele turns his eyes on the old many’s dirt-stained, little 
wadded jacket, on the lad’s ragged long coat. 

Yes; we are dressed like beggars, and we are beggars.’’^ 

‘‘You lived in this fort?’^ asked Steele, doubtingly. 
“Were master of it.'’^ 

“Yes; was master of it.'’^ 

“ Do you not live in it now?’^ 

“ Not within it; only without it. We live there," and 
he pointed to a rude lean-to shed that had been run up 
against one of the walls of the fort. “ These outer walls 
are standing, but all the inner buildings have been pulled 
down.’'’ 

“ Why was that?” asked Steele. 

“ To supply ourselves with food and clothing. We sold 


70 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


the bricks in the walls, tfe timbers in the roof, the doors 
and windows/^ 

“ There has been a very great change in your condition?^^ 
Very great. My father ruled over a wide extent of 
territory, and had an army of his own. It was with that 
army that we marched out to oppose your forces under 
Lord Lake. My father was killed in the battle that took 
place, some twenty-five miles from here, and it was after 
that that we lost most of our villages.''^ 

We marched out. It was a long time ago.^^ 

Yes, fifty- two years ago. I am a very old man. I 
was sixteen years of age then. I had seen many fights be- 
fore that. 1 defended this fort with my mother against the 
Mahrattas when I was only fourteen years old. My mother 
was a very brave woman. They lay there, by the side of 
the lake, in that grove of trees. ^ 

The old man^s voice rose as he pointed to the spot. 

“ They came up the slope there, and tried to carry the 
gate four times, and four times we drove them back.-’^ 

The old man^s voice rose higher. 

“ My father had taken away the best part of our follow- 
ing with him on an expedition, but we held the fort with 
the men he had left behind him. My father came back 
suddenly, and he fell on the enemy from behind;” and 
now the old man draws himself up to his full height, and 
the battle fire gleams in his eyes, “ and we went down and 
attacked them in front, and utterly routed them, and capt- 
ured their camp, and seized many horses and camels and 
elephants. ” 

‘‘ But the British government did not take away all your 
villasres?” 

“ ]^o; it left us many for the support of my mother and 
myself.^' 

‘‘ What have you done with them?” 

“Lost them.” 

“How?” 

“ God knows. I did not understand your rules and 
regulations. The government took away some of my vil- 
lages because I was in arrears with my rent. My creditors 
seized others, with their true bonds and false bonds. I 
sold some to meet our expenses. While my mother lived 
we had, of course, to maintain the dignity and state to 
which she had always been accustomed.'’^ 


71 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

** You seem to be in very poor/circumstances now?'^ 

” We are, sir. We cultivate a few fields. My son is no 
more than a poor ryot. He, a Rajput, the grandson of 
my father, Tej Pal, has never mounted a horse, and has to 
handle plow and spade insbead of sword and spear. And 
there is my daughter! that is the worst of all; she has al- 
most arrived at the age of puberty, and is not married yet. 
We may incur the disgrace of her reaching that age in her 
father ^s house. Would that she had never lived. 

“ Been permitted to live,^^ was what the old man meant, 
though he could not say so to the Englishmen; three other 
girls had been disposed of in their infancy. 

“ I am very sorry for you,^^ said Steele, bending down 
and touching the old man kindly on the shoulder. 

“ It is very good of you to say so, sir. It was written in 
the Book of Fate. Such are the changes and chances of 
life. The world revolves. The poor become rich, and tho 
rich become poor. 

“And may become rich again, said the heavy-shoul- 
dered son. 

“ True; the wheel of fate goes round. 

“ And,’^ said Steele, smiling, “if you have come from 
the top to the bottom, you may go from the bottom to the 
top again. 

“All is fate. It was fated that you English should con- 
quer this land, and that we should lose our estates. 

“ And it may be fated — said the young man, quickly, . 
and then he checked himself. 

He spoke in a tone so significant that Steele turned and 
looked at him. 

“ What were you about to say.^^'’ he asked. 

“ Nothing, sir, said the old man, hastily. “Young 
men are foolish. You wanted to find the way to Hajigunje 
Factory. There is no difficulty in doing so. Come with 
me,-’^ and be led them across the mound to the opposite 
edge. “ This path leads you into the main street of the 
village, and that lies along the road to the factory. You 
turn to your left.^^ 

“ Iffiank you,” sa3^s Steele, raising his hand to his head. 
The old man and his loutish son salaam in return. They 
watch the two Englishmen as they ride down the slope and 
disappear among the houses of the village. 


72 


THE TOUCHSTOIfE OF PERIL. 

The young fellow casts a look of sullen hatred after them, 
and then relieves his feelings by spitting on the ground. 

‘‘Foul-feeding, high-handed Feringhees!^^ he cries. 

Oh, my father! if he had touched you I should have 
knocked him off his horse. 

“ He should never have touched me, my son. I should 
have broken his arm — or the leg of his horse. 

“ The turn of the wheel! He does not know how near it 
is!^^ 

“ Guard thy tongue, beloved son. Thou very nearly 
spakest rashly just now. I saw the smooth-tongued, cun- 
ning one fix his eye upon thee.^^ 

“It is sad to think of the old man being brought so 
low,^-’ said Steele, as they rode out of the village. 

“ I do not believe what he said. He is an old humbug — 
an impostor. I do not believe that he ever was a zemindar. 
I wonder he did not say that he had been a rajah, says 
Dacres. 

“I have no doubt that what he told us is true."’^ 

‘ ‘ Then I am very glad the old villain has had such a 
downfall. 

“ The ruin of the old landlords and the loss of their es- 
tates is a very unfortunate result of our rule; a dangerous 
one for ourselves, as well as a sad one for them.^^ 

“ You do not suppose that old madman can do us any 
harm?^^ 

“ Not’he alone, perhaps; but thousands of others have 
suffered in the same way. Think how cases like his must 
appeal to the sympathies of the people around them. 

“ Sympathies of the people !^^ said Hacres, scornfully. 
“ The people have no sympathies except with their stom- 
achs. A native does not care for anything beyond his dal 
roil (food). He talks and thinks and cares about nothing 
but pice.^^ 

“ I have heard other people say the same; but because a 
common it is no less a great error. Thjj people do care for 
much besides. The Hindoostanee, no more than the En- 
glishman, does not live by bread alone. He too has his 
passions, his feelings, and sentiments. The names of local 
chieftains are preserved in many a local legend and song.^^ 

“ Songs and legends! Bosh!’^ said Dacres, using his 
favorite word. 

“ You have probably never heard one. ” 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


73 


“ No: and do not want to/^ 

It would be better if we Englishmen knew a little more 
of what was said and sung around us/^ 

They discuss the subject somewhat hotly up to the very 
edge of the factory grounds, but entering these through a 
wicket, and riding along a little-frequented pathway, they 
suddenly come on a sight which makes them forget all 
about the politics of India. They are no nymphs or naiads 
of the Greek or Roman fancy; no houris or peris of the 
Eastern imagination; their day is over; but only two pretty 
English girls, whose day, thank Heaven, is as yet. 

The riders have come to the edge of the broad space of 
shade cast by a fine old tamarind -tree; in it is spread a 
carpet, and on the carpet — her pretty feet and ankles show- 
ing beyond the edge of her petticoat — reclines, half -raised 
upon one elbow, a beautiful girl, a wavering sunbeam fall- 
ing on the rosy cheek, the rosy mouth, the golden hair, the 
sweet blue eyes, now raised, in mute surprise, toward the 
horsemen; and not far from thia“snow and rose bloom 
maiden, ^^-at the foot of the tree, against which she leans 
with her hands behind her head — an attitude which brings 
out the statuesque grace of her fine full figure — sits a girl 
with a face of a pure rich brown in color, of a pure short 
oval in shape, who looks up at them with the most mag- 
nificent pair of large brown eyes — seren6, thoughtful, pure. 

The yourig men have drawn instant rein, and thus they 
remain for a little space of time regarding one another, in- 
terchanging glances. 


CHAPTER XL 

THE MEETING. 

The two girls jump to their feet. 

“ My name is Dacres — Percy Dacres,^^ says one of the 
young men, removing his hat and giving to view his curl- 
ing chestnut hair. 

Chloe Neale gives a great start, and so vivid a blush 
mantles her cheek that Dacres looks at her with some sur- 
prise, which look turns her cheek to scarlet. 

“lam afraid we have startled you by coming on you so 
suddenly.^'’ • 

But it was not that. 


74 THE TOUCHSTONE OE PEKIL. 

To pass an hour or two under the tamarind shade had 
now become a daily habit, notwithstanding Mrs. Neale^s 
protestations that it was most dangerous to be out-of-doors 
at all There they would sit and work or read, or, as to- 
day, do nothing at all, enjoying the balmy warmth of the 
air, laden with the scent of roses, sweet pea, mignonette; 
watch the gambols of the squirrels, the flight of the butter- 
flies, the movements of the fearless birds; while from high 
in the air fell the shrill cry of the kite, and the parrots 
went screaming by. 

“ Do you think we shall be married very soon?^’’ had 
asked Chloe, suddenly. 

A tinge of red rises into Mary^s brown cheek, than which 
no combination of color can be prettier. 

“ What a question to askT^ 

Girls who come out to India marry very soon. Mrs. 
Zouch says all the young men in Hajigunje are dying to see 
xrs.^^ 

“ Girls think and talk a great deal too much about get- 
ting married. 

Do you never think about it. 

Mary remembers some of her vague day-dreams, and, 
avoiding an answer, goes on with her own speech. 

They seem to think gettmg married the sole aim and 
object of a woman^s life."'^ 

“ But you would not like to be an old maid, Mary?^' 

"‘Whynot?^^ 

Every one laughs at them. 

Only unkind, foolish people. 

“I should not like to be an old maid, and I know I shall 
not be one,^^ says Chloe, with a puetty, self-confident smile. 

“ Some of the most remarkable and distinguished women 
who have ever lived were never married. The Maid of 
Saragossa, and Joan of Arc, and Miss Edgeworth, and Miss 
Martineau, and Joanna Baillie, and Jane Austen — that 
wonderful novelist. See what a noble, useful life Florence 
Efightingale has lived? Is it anything against her that she 
retains the name she has ennobled? You think it would 
have been better if she had become Mrs. Tompkins or 
Mrs. Smith? It is because girls are so anxious to be mar- 
ried that they make such foolish marriages — take the first 
one who proposes to them.^^ 

“ I will never marry any one but an officer/^ cries Chloe. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF FEEIL. 


75 


“ I certainly have a great admiration for a profession the 
members of which are ever ready to face dangers and un- 
dergo hardships, and meet death at the call of duty; in 
which honor and glory, and the service of one’s country, 
are placed before safety and ease and personal advantage; 
in which mere money-grubbing is not the whole aim and 
object of a man’s existence.” 

‘‘But he must not be a doctor — a man who looks Ut 
other people’s tongues and gives them physic. ” 

“ But that, too, is a noble profession. In it, too, men 
have to set work and duty above self. Doctors are the 
knights of suffering humanity; have to enter the lists on 
its behalf against disease and death. See what work doc- 
tors have to do on the occasion of an epidemic, say of 
small-pox or of cholera; what risks they run. ” 

“ And he must have whiskers. ” 

“ Pshaw!” cries Mary, angrily. 

“ I do not like a man with a beard. And he must not 
be short. I know you do not like short men, Mary.” 

“ I have a high ideal of what a man should he — brave 
and strong and generous; gentle and kind and true. He 
should be a gentle man and a noble man. I should like 
him to be of fine presence, too.” 

“ And his name Percy.” 

“ What does that matter? Why not ^J^homas or John?” 
“ I will not marry any one whose name is not Percy.” 

“ What nonsense you — we — are talking. Let us drop 
the subject.” 

But Chloe’s thoughts were not to be turned from a chan- 
nel in which they frequently ran, diverted from a favorite 
field of exercise. So, she goes on, 

“And he must dress well.” 

“ Be made not by God, but his tailor. ” 

“ And dance well.” 

“ Dancing and dress. What poor means of distinction! 
Well enough in their way. But a man should .think of 
higher things. He should be a hero; have high thoughts, 
and be capable of great deeds. ” 

Mary Neale’s face had every advantage of feature — well- 
formed forehead, well-cut nose, w^ell-cut chin, full but 
beautifully formed lips; or rather full and beautifully 
chiseled lips, for lips should be full; magnificent large 
brown eyes; but even all these combined would not have 


7G THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 

produced its present splendid beauty but for the glow of 
lofty enthusiasm that lighted it up from within. It is on 
that glowing face, those beaming eyes, that Steele suddenly 
looks down. 

The girls have been too much engaged in their talk to 
catch the deadened footfall of the horses. The horsemen 
come upon them suddenly, round the end of a thick plan- 
tation. They can at first only gaze up at the sudden ap- 
parition in confusion and bewilderment. Their senses 
nave, as it were, for a moment left them. 

Ohloe looks up and sees a fine, tall, handsome young 
man mounted on a fine, tall, handsome horse — a sight 
which at once arouses her warmest admiration. Mary 
looks up, and her eyes are caught and held by those of a 
stranger. She interchanges a long, full look with him. 
We go about habitually with veiled and guarded looks. 
Seldom, even in closest intercourse, do we see the “ whole 
soul setting in the eyes."’^ Perhaps, luckily, for sometimes 
a look will reveal to us distrust and contempt, scorn, and 
loathing, where we fondly imagined there was only full 
confidence and homage, approbation and esteem. The 
look Mary Neale encounters is one of full, complete, rapt 
admiration — one might almost say adoration. That look 
fascinates her, and she can only go on gazing in return. 
Then she becomes dimly conscious that the look comes 
from a pair of gray eyes that interpose between the peak of 
a pith helmet and a long, thin nose. Then the blood 
rushes into her cheeks with a violence that pains her. 
Then she sees a look of extraordinary confusion arise on 
the face of the stranger, which he seeks to hide by rubbing 
the end of the long, thin nose with the butt end of his 
whip, and this makes her laugh. And when they have 
risen to their feet the first thing Chloe hears is that the 
handsome young man’s name is Percy! Percy! 

“ No, no; it is not that,” cries Chloe, in great confusion. 

“We have come to call on Mrs. Neale. We belong to 
the regiment at Hajigunje. This is Captain Steele. The 
Miss Neales, I presume.” 

“Yes; we have just come from England,” says Mary. 

The young men dismount, and they walk up to the house 
together, and pass along the front of the mausoleum, which 
still stands unchanged, with its high*, recessed, demi-vaulted 
entrance doorway. They find Mr. and Mrs. Neale walking 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


77 


up and down the long front veranda. Mr. iNeale welcomes 
Dacres with exuberant cordiality. Captain Steele with no 
more than ordinary civility. That Captain Steele is not a 
popular man makes the gentle Mrs. Neale all the kinder in 
her manner to him; but such kindness indicates the out- 
sider. We are not excessively civil to our intimates. 

Of course the young men must stay to tiffin ; of course 
they must stay to dinner. Captain Steele is not quite sure 
he can do the latter; no very great effort is made to induce 
him to do so, but it proves sufficient. It is to be presumed 
that even a miser (to use Mrs. Zouch^s terms) may have a 
heart; that at thirty the blood may be warm even in the 
veins of a mummy. For these were two very pretty girls, 
and one of them he himself considered supremely beautiful. 

Mr. Neale is an excellent host, and they are soon laugh- 
ing and talking merrily around the luncheon table. Mrs. 
Neale ^s nervousness always displays itself at table in a con- 
stant fear lest the dishes she has provided should prove in- 
jurious to those eating them. This, which so often is a 
source of annoyance, is only a cause of amusement just 
now. 

“Hem! John— 

John knows what is coming, and puts down his knife 
and fork. / 

“ Don^t you think, says Mrs. Neale, looking into the 
dish before her — 

“ Then tell the man to take it away.^'^ 

“No; but don^t you think^ — 

“ Tell him to take it away.-’^ 

Then Mr. Neale says, mildly (we restrain ourselves 
more, behave ourselves better in company, than in the 
domestic circle; more’s the pity), 

“ The chops are only a little underdone.’^ 

“You had better not take one,-” says Mrs. Neale to 
Dacres; “ take some of this pie, though I am not sure that 
the crust of that — ” 

“ Neither will hurt me, says the big man, laughing. 
“ I do not care what I eat (he did, of course), and can eat 
most things; besides, I like my chops underdone. Just like 
this one. ” 

After tiffin they adjourn to one of the verandas, where 
the easy-chairs have been set out, and Mr. Neale and Dacres 
light their cheroots. The dogs come frisking around them. 


78 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


‘‘ I have a great favor to ask of you/^ says Chloe to 
Dacres, prettily. 

Have you:^'’ says Dacres, in some surprise. 

Father says you have the first choice of Juno^s pups, 
and that you will take the one I like best. -’^ 

“ Of course I will not,^^ says Dacres, with most unneces-^ 
sary warmth. 

“ Oh, thank you so much,^^ cries Chloe, with a blush 
and a smile, which Dacres considers quite sufficient com- 
pensation for taking the second-best pup. 

A servant comes to Mr. Neale, and tells him that Usuf 
Khan, a well-known itinerant horse-dealer, has halted his 
string of horses on the road, and wants to know if Mr. 
Neale would care to look at them. 

‘‘Just the very thing, says Mr. Neale. “I may be 
able to find among them a horse for you, Chloe. 

The horses and ponies — there are about twenty of them 
—are paraded in f-ront of the veranda. Here are Arabs; 
Persian horses, with silky mane and tail; small, stout Cabul 
horses: Guzaratee galloways; piebald Thibet ponies; coun- 
try-bred mares, very swift trotters; big, coarse, entire 
horses of the indigenous breed. Here are horses bred ex- 
pressly for native gentlemen, taught to curvet and caracole 
and amble, and made very fat, for the native gentleman 
likes his horse to have a fine big belly on him. A lithe 
Arab lad displays the paces of the horses, jumps on them 
bare-backed, or with only a saddle-cloth or blanket on; 
stops them dead in the midst of a furious gallop; turns 
them round within their own length, by means of the sim- 
ple but cruel Oriental bit. The use of it is much resented 
by a large, powerful, handsome horse, seeing which, Dacres 
calls to the lad to dismount, and, ere Mrs. Neale ^s terrified 
remonstrances have left her lips, has leaped on to the 
horse^s back, and dashed away down the avenue. He 
comes back along it at full speed, and, as he pulls up in 
front of the veranda, his heavy hand throws the horse back 
on his haunches, and the animal rears up and paws the air 
wildly. 

Mrs. Neale screams, so does Chloe. Mary looks on in 
half-terrified admiration. Dacres of course has no stirrups. 
The attitude of horse and rider remind Mary of many a 
picture and statue she has seen — the noble statue of God- 
frey de Bouillon at Brussels, the picture of Napoleon cross- 


79 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

ing the Alps, of many of Flaxman’s drawings. To both 
the sisters, indeed, Dacre§ seems ‘‘ like a god freshly lighted 
on the, ear'^h to witch the world with noble horsemanship.^^ 
Come down, Mr. Dacres, come down,/^ screams Mrs. 
Neale; “ you have nearly frightened me to death. How 
rash of you to mount the horse without a saddle. ” 

Th^re is a nice, pretty little horse that Mr. Neale thinks 
will do very well for Chloe, and after the usual immense 
amount of bargaining needed on such occasions, he is pur- 
chased. Then Dacres offers to break him in for the side- 
saddle! 

“ I will have him ready for you in a week;” and his offer 
is accepted. 

In the evening they stroll out through the fields. It is a 
narrow pathway. Husband and wife go first, Ohloe and 
Dacres come next, then Mary and Captain Steele — an ar- 
rangement which Mary likes so little that for some time 
she does not vouchsafe her companion a single word. But 
thinking this not quite civil, she says, 

‘‘Had you a pleasant ride out to-day. Captain Steele?” 

“ Yes; very,^^ says Captain Steele, awaking from a 
reverie. 

“You came upon us very suddenly,” she says; and then 
remembers that look of his, and sees that he remembers it, 
too, and a sudden perturbation troubles her, and brings a 
red spot out on either cheek. 

“How do ycm like India, Miss Nealer’^ asks Captain 
Steele, hastily. 

“ I have hardly been long enough in it to answer that 
question,” she replies, smiling. 

“ And when you have no one will ask it. But what is 
the chief impression made on your mind since you came 
here?” 

“ That the country is very flat.” 

“It is so, indeed. The scenery is most monotonous. 
Exactly the same, mile after mile. ” 

“ Yes,” says Mary — 

‘ Here each alley has its brother. 

And one half the landscape but reflects the other.’ ” 

I 

“A very apt quotation, and one that exactly describes 
the condition of things.^' 

The dinner is as delightful as youth and beauty, health 


80 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


and strength, good appetites and good dishes can make ih 
The voyage out supplies a natural and ready subject of 
conversation. The talk flows on as ran the steamer: Gib- 
raltar— galleries; Malta — ices; Cairo — the pyramids; Suez 
— donkeys; Aden — Somali boys. 

“ I think board ship most delightful, most awfully jolly,^^ 
said Dacres; singing, dancing, private theatricals.'’^ 

“ I think so, too,^^ says Chloe, in a tone that implied 
that that was a bond between them. 

‘‘A voyage is the most restful thing there is, said 
Steele. “ Letters can not reach you; and while you are 
doing nothing you are doing all that can be done; you are 
hard at work, about your business.'’'’ 

“ If you had ever made the six months^ voyage round 
the Cape you would have found that somewhat too rest- 
ful,-’'’ said Mrs. Neale. 

‘‘ The curious thing about a voyage,'’'’ goes on the long- 
nosed captain, is how full you are of the board-ship life 
to-day, and to-morrow you enter port and it vanishes clean 
away. The rattling of the anchor chain is like the ringing 
of the bell; the curtain drops, and the play is played out, 
and the actors go their several ways.'’'’ 

When they go into the drawing-room the mere unwonted 
homelike feeling of it is to the two young men a source of 
intense delight. Not so much so to Dacres, for his parents 
having been in India, and he sent to England at an early 
age, he had enjoyed but little home life;-»but deeply so to 
Steele. All his early years had been passed in his own 
home — ^his father’s house. He had come out to India 
rather late in life, after he had been to Oxford, and had 
begun to eat his dinners at the Temple. There had been 
such a drawing-room as this — in which, too, had been a 
sweet-faced mother; she whose portrait — a fine work of art 
as well as a faithful portrait — now adorned his dingy bare 
room, and looked so incongruous in it; and two beautiful 
daughters — with whom some of the greatest joys and deep- 
est sorrows of his own life had been connected. Then the 
rare, and in this case so high, delight of the music and the 
singing fairly enchant them. Mary sings her songs with a 
pathos she has never been able to throw into them before, 
and* is quite confused as she happens to mark Captain 
Steele’s intent, rapt regard. Mrs. Neale enraptures them 
with her exquisite playing. Chloe warbles her pretty dit- 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 81 

ties. Then they sing glees^ and Dacres lends a lusty aid in 
his favorite one of, 

“Oh, now across the downs so free, 

Oh, who will with me ride? 

Oh, who will up and follow me, 

To win a blooming bride?” 

And that ever-memorable day has run out to the last 
golden grain ere the young men take their departure. 
They ride home silent under the silent stars. 

‘‘Is he not handsome, Maryr^^ cried Chloe, enthusias- 
tically, as they stood before the mirror uncoiling their hair. 

“ Who?’" 

“ Who? as if you did not know. Mr. Dacres, of course. 
The other is so ugly. And just think of his name being 
Percy!” 

And ere Chloe’ s soft eyelids close in sleep she hears, in 
accents faint and dim, as if whispered by visionary lips, 
“ and his name Percy!” And ere Mary enters on tho 
nightly sojourn in the land of forgetfulness she has con- 
fused dreams of Mazeppa, Brussels, Pawnee Indians, the 
Pampas, of which the connecting link, if one may say so, 
is a horse, in wliich young men sit stirrupless on flying 
steeds — steeds that wildly paw the air. I 

“ Be careful, oh, my brethren! Be careful!” shouts the 
watchman without. 


CHAPTER XII. 

LOVE THE DISTURBER. 

November has gone, December come with its shorter 
days, its longer and colder nights, its paler sun. It is the 
time of growth in field and garden; fresh flowers come into 
bloom every day. 

The sisters have, of course, by ‘this time become very 
well acquainted with the station of Hajigunje — not many 
visits are needed for that purpose, for it is a very small 
one. It is divided as usual into the military lines or can- 
tonment, and the civil lines. In the former military law 
prevails, and all dwelling within its limits are camp follow- 
ers. Of it the Sepoy lines form the central point— the 
heart; around it lie its attendant members — the bungalows 


8^ THE TOECHSTOKE OF PEBIL. 

of the officers, the hospital, the commissariat sheds and 
godowns, the cantonment bazar. Of the civil lines, the 
kacheri, Or court-house, is the heart from which the body 
politic of local English rule derives its life and movement; 
it is the building in which the magistrate and collector ” 
—who manages for the English government its district or 
estate of Hajigunje, several thousand of square miles in 
extent, and containing a million of inhabitants, collects 
the revenue from it, keeps order in it, detects and punishes 
crime, and administers justice in it, makes all the improve- 
ments in it, keeps its accounts — holds his court, has his 
office and treasury. It is here all the records are kept. 

Around it lie the bungalows of the civil functionaries, 
the jail, the post-office, the police-station, the government 
school; and furthest off, because of its evil odor— and an 
evil odor it is, morally as well as physically — the state dis- 
tillery. In this dismal-looking in closure, whose high sur- 
rounding brick wall gives it the look of a prison-yard, 
where the dust-laden trees rise with dry, brown stem out 
of the dry, brown soil, under uncouth brick-built tombs, 
amid the tall, dry grass, lie the alien dead — it is the En- 
glish cemetery — ‘‘ Where sleep not England's dead?^' 
There stands a pretty little church. Then come the social 
public institutions. Here are the assembly rooms, with a 
pretty garden round them ; there the bath. There, in con- 
venient contiguity, stand the reading-room and the billiard 
room and the racket-court. The space of ground on which 
the station stands is as flat as a chess-table. But the soil 
is fertile, and the water near the surface; the excellent 
public and private gardens, the fine masses of trees in all 
the compounds, the beautiful avenues along the roads, 
some of them of very ancient date, give this small station 
of Hajigunje a very pretty look. The roads are very well 
kept; in those early days the evening drive was, for the 
English women especially, almost the only amusement. 
By the side of these roads stand the public w^ells which, 
with their fine, large, handsome masonry platforms, form 
so conspicuous a feature in the level scenery of Northern 
India. Here rises up the tapering roof of a little Hindoo 
temple; there stands an open Mohammedan praying-place, 
the tomb of a Mohammedan saint. Here is a lotus-covered 
tank, with a picturesque group of temples above it, w here 
the women in their gay-colored garments pass up and down 


83 . 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 

the long lines of steps with their water- jars poised grace- 
fully on their headS;, and around which the monkeys gam- 
bol in the fine, tall trees. Here is the one “ Europe shop 
of the place, with its marvelously multifarious contents, 
kept by one Hormusjee, a fire- worshiper, bland and extor- 
tionate. 

The word station well expresses, at all events did at that 
time, the nature of English rule in India. It was then, 
throughout the greater part of its length and breadth, away 
from the sea-board, merely a military occupation. We had 
built no abiding city there, only planted military outposts. 
We dwelt by Delhi or Agra ‘‘ of the great Mogul, but not 
in them. The station of Hajigunje lay by the side of the 
ancient town of Hajigunje. Between the two ran a little 
drainage line no bigger than a ditch; but for all the inter- 
course, the community of thought or feeling between the 
two, it might have been an arm of the ocean. Bound the 
town ran a wall; one gateway or two gave entrance to the 
quarters in which dwelt the richer citizens; one single gate- 
way gave entrance to the court-yard of their houses, the 
final citadels, with their flat-terraced, fire-proof roofs. The 
station lay in the flat open plain, with nothing around it 
but the demarcating boundary pillars; no lofty wall or 
deep ditch surrounded it; no gateways stood on/ the roads 
leading into it; around the compounds ran low brick walls, 
or earthen mounds or hedges, meant only to keep out cat- 
tle; the bungalows present a dozen doorways to the open 
air, and are covered with thatched roofs, highly inflam- 
mable; are more defenseless than any villa in the suburbs 
of London. Strange occupation of a conquered land, 
where the conquered dwell in the walled-in cities, and the 
conquerors in open villas by their side. 

The “ cold season is the brisk time of the year in In- 
dia. In all large stations it is the period of greatest social 
activity and enjoyment, but in small stations it is often a 
very quiet time, for most of the few English residents are 
then out in camp. This was the case with Hajigunje just 
now. But the very fewness of their numbers brought 
those remaining behind into more close and constant com- 
munion. Percy Dacres the sisters see every day, for is he 
not giving Chloe lessons in riding? On a lovely lake, sur- 
rounded by mountains, on a gentle river flowing through 
meadows green, to teach a pretty girl to row, is, as we can 


84 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


from experience say, very delightful. But to teach a pretty 
girl riding is very delightful too. How delightful to teach 
her how to mount! to have her place her dainty foot in the 
palm of your hand, and help her to rise lightly into the 
saddle! How delightful to place the reins between the 
delicate fingers, and to teach her the proper way of holding 
them. How delightful to soothe the timid fears, bestow 
encouragement, award praise! All this did Percy Hacres 
find. And if he found the task of teacher delightful, Chloe 
found that of pupil no less so. 

Of Dr. Sawyer they see, so far as Mary Neale is con- 
cerned, a very great deal too much. He is paying open 
and blatant court to her. To be made love to by “ Bob 
Sawyer, and not to be made love to by Percy Dacres, it is 
a double grievance. 

This situation of things cost Mary many a bitter heart- 
pang. Was the prize to fall to the least worthy: Was 
not hers the richer, nobler nature, the more cultivated un- 
derstanding? Was it her own sister she was envying and 
disparaging? How terrible! But was it not true? Then 
she strove to put these thoughts from her. She was but a 
girl of eighteen. Blameworthiness lies not in being visited 
by unworthy thoughts, but in giving them permanent en- 
tertainment, making them our bosom companions. Her 
struggles were not helped by Chloe. To her Dr. Sawyer's 
attentions to Mary were an enhancement of her triumph 
and joy in Dacres paying his attentions to her. Mary must 
envy her her better luck. There was a sore place, and she 
must lay her delicate finger on it. She had a child's un- 
thinking cruelty. The annoyance connected with Dr. 
Sawyer's attentions did not so much matter to Mary; she 
could laugh at it: it was an open thing; but the other was 
an inward wound; she could not say that anything hurt it; 
she had to deny its existence, even to herself. 

“lam sure that what Mrs. Zoiich said will come true," 
is Chloe's speech. 

“ What was that?" asks Mary. 

“ That we shall both be married very soon. The way 
Dr. Sawyer goes on is very comical; but there is no doubt 
he is desperately in love with you." 

“ Do you think I would marry Dr. Sawyer?" 

“Why not?" asks Chloe, with her innocent, simple 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 85 

smile. It would be so nice for us both to be in the same 
regiment.-’^ 

So you have made up your mind to' go into the regi- 
ment. It is not good to count one^s chickens before they 
are hatched.-’^ 

Chlce smiles a confident smile. 

But, seriously, my dear,^^ says Mary, turning round, 
she . has hitherto had her face averted, and assuming the 
tone in which she was wont to convey to Chloe advice, re- 
monstrance, or reproof. “ Seriously, it is neither proper 
nor wise for a girl to allow herself to indulge in suchiin- 
ticipations. What a painful, what a degrading position she 
would find herself in if those anticipations proved un- 
founded!’^ 

Again Chloe smiles her confident smile. 

‘ ‘ A woman should keep a careful guard over her feel- 
ings; she must not show her preference.” 

Chloe gives her sister a quick, half-frightened, knowing 
look. Mary understands it. Has she kept careful guard 
over her own feelings? Has she not betrayed her prefer- 
ence? The hot blood rushes into her cheeks. 

Colonel Monk was a very frequent visitor at the factory, 
but he too was away a good deal just now. Of Mrs. Zouch, 
of course, they saw a very great deal. She was the only 
companion of their own sex the ladies of Hajigunje Factory 
had; she was just now the only other Englishwoman in 
Hajigunje. Her married condition and her youth enabled 
her to be a friend and companion to mother and daughters 
alike. She was a girl as well as a matron — a wife of many 
years’ standing. Then she was lively and amusing, and if 
somewhat too much of a rattle, really kind-hearted. They 
saw a good deal of Captain Steele, too.” 

“ Poor man,^’ says Mrs. Neale, ‘‘ we can not always 
have Mr. Dacres here and not ask him too, as they are liv- 
ing together, more especially as he is not a favorite in the 
station. Colonel Monk does not like him, nor Mrs. Zouch, 
nor, I believe, Mrs. Dyke. He must feel rather lonely.” 

It is all his own fault,” says Mary. “ He does not 
subscribe to the tent club, or the racket-court, or the bath. 
Mr. Dacres told me so. If he will not join in anything 
because it costs a little money, of course he must be 
lonely.” 


86 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

If he would only buy himself some guns he could 
amuse himself easily enough/’ says Mr. Neale. ^ 

“ And then we three ladies want three gentlemen to take 
us in to dinner/’ adds Mrs. Neale. 

But, as is usually the case, she has her esoteric as well as 
her exoteric reasons. 

“ It would not do, John,” she goes on to say when they 
are alone by themselves, ‘‘ to be always asking Mr. Dacres 
to dinner by himself; people would say we were trying to 
catch him.” 

“I wish to goodness!” cries Mr. Neale, “ that we were 
a hundred miles away from a station instead of only six. I 
declare, I have hardly heard my own daughters speak.” 

“ Oh, they both could speak before they went to Eng- 
land, John.” 

“ Only Hindoostanee. I should have liked to make sure of 
their being with us for a twelvemonth at least. Here they 
have been with us only for six weeks, and I doubt whether 
they are not already thinking of changing their abode.” 

A faint tinge of color, like the earliest blush of dawn, 
rises into Mrs. Neale’s pallid cheeks; a slight film of moist- 
ure, like the light dew of an April morning, veils for a mo- 
ment her sad gray eyes. Dr. Sawyer, too, was away several 
times on official business. While he was there Mary wel- 
comed Captain Steele’s coming, because it delivered her in. 
some measure from Dr. Sawyer’s ostentatious, pertinacious, 
and most annoying attentions. When he was not there 
Mary welcomed Captain Steele’s coming almost the more, 
because it delivered her from the trying situation of being 
alone with Chloe and Dacres — forming the undesirable 
third — a position which had become to her now positively 
painful, from being continually troubled by the thought of 
too much avoidance, too much intrusion. Then she began 
to find the long-nosed captain’s company not unamusing. 
The mummy could talk. Most of their other friends were 
not reading people, not fond of books. Captain Steele’s 
early training had made him more of a boolash man than 
those around him. Mary Neale was a great devourer of 
books, and not averse to displaying her knowledge of them. 
She liked discussion. Had a very firm belief in the sound- 
ness of her own judgment — about men as well as books. 
She and Steele had many a warm discussion; he upholding 
his views in a quiet, incisive way, she hers with great 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 87 

warmth and vigor. Mrs. Keale would watch the struggle 
with quiet enjoyment. They, the two disputers, did not 
rise, probably, to any very great height of literary criticism; 
they were but ordinary people. They discussed the merits 
of authors, poets, and novelists of the day, who are as dead 
now as the talk they talked about them; those" saddest 
people, surely — especially the sensitive poets— -who, pant- 
ing towing their way to the highest heaven, rise but a 
short way above the earth; who, longing for immortality, 
find but a speedy oblivion. Or, instead of disputing, the 
two would wander back together into the realms of fancy 
and imagination — the true realms of gold — they had 
visited, and read favorite passages, incidents, scenes, and 
characters. They do this with regard to novels, and Mrs. 
Neale joins in, for she is a great reader of novels. And 
then they find that Captain Steele has been able to enter 
into the delicate, supernaturally natural, smile-moving 
humor of Jane Austen, as well as into the extravagant, 
laughter- compelling humor of Charles Dickens; can read 
with a curious facility and felicity scenes and characters 
from their widely different books; read the foolish talk of 
Mr. John Collins as well as the humorous talk of Captain 
Cuttle. I 

Mary Neale had found that the talk of most of the people 
about her was local or personal; they talked gossip, or they 
talked shop. Men generally talk best when they talk shop. 
But the language used was as yet an unknown one to Mary; 
she did not know what Toshdans and Chunda and Lumber- 
dars and flulqabundee meant. She found that politics and 
religion, those subjects of such great interest in England,^ 
were hardly talked about at all in India. She could dis- 
cuss these, as well as books, with Captain Steele, for he 
had kept more touch of England and English things. 
Then that question of how she likes India has become a 
standing topic and joke between them. 

‘‘ What do you think of India nowf^^ he asks one day. 

“ There is a great deal of sunshine in it."’^ 

“ Any fresh impressions of India, Miss Neale?^^ he asks 
another. 

“ It is very dusty. 

‘‘ Anything new about India to-day. Miss Neale?^^ he 
asks, when next they meet. 

Yes. My father laughed for nearly half an hour last 


88 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


night, because I asked him if there were no native families 
in the neighborhood whom we visited. It seems a most ex- 
traordinary thing that we should live in a country and have 
no intercourse whatsoever with its people. 

“ It is most extraordinary that a man should live thirty 
or forty years in India, and never share a meal with one of 
its inhabitants — never enter the house of one of them. And 
yet we talk about our knowledge of the natives. 

What is the cause of it?^^ 

“ Not the Enghsh pride and arrogance alone, to which 
some people attribute it. Difference of thought and feel- 
ing. Caste prejudices. Difference of manners and cus- 
toms as much as anything else. It is almost ludicrous to 
think v/hat enormous changes — moral and material, social 
and political, and religious even — may be brought about 
- hereafter simply by the people taking to the use of knife 
and fork and spoon, of glass and china, instead of brass. 

‘‘I told you so,-’^ says Colonel Monk, with a chuckle* 
‘ ‘ Dacres and Sawyer and Steele, they are all in the run- 
ning. Bird is not in it yet, simply because he is out in 
camp. He will make it hot when he comes in. He can 
afford to give the others a start. I will back him still. 

“Well, my dear, so you have two strings to your bow, 
or rather two beaus to your string — ha! haP’’ says the live- 
ly Mrs. Zouch to Mary. 

“ What do you mean?^^ 

“ As if you did not know? But perhaps he is only doing 
duty for Bob Sawyer while the doctor is away. 

‘‘Whoishe?^^ 

“ Captain Steele, of course. If he goes on doing duty 
very long, he may wish to get the permanent appointment. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE COLLECTOR AND HIS WIFE. 

At one end of the station of Hajigunje lies a compound, 
very well wooded and very much larger than usual, worthy 
indeed of the name of a park, as the flat-terraced bungalow 
it surrounds is to be called a mansion. ^ In it are wide 
stretches of open ground, thick plantations, magnificent 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 89 

winding avenues, lawns and shrubberies, a pretty piece of 
water overshadowed by trees, beds and borders of flowers, 
an extensive orchard, a very large kitchen-garden, groves 
and thickets, musical with birds. The square, formed by 
the stables and offices, is quite a large one, and more pop- 
ulous than many a large village in England. The house, 
which stands on a gentle rise, is square-built; in front is a 
stately portico; along the whole front of the western and 
northern sides run two long and wide verandas, with ellip- 
tical arches resting on handsome columns, giving it the 
look of an Italian palace. It had been built in the earlier 
years of our occupancy, when materials and labor were 
cheap, when Englishmen spent their money in India, when 
it was to them a home and not a place of temporary sojourn, 
when the local representative of the ruling power was not 
merely a tax-gatherer and police magistrate as now, when 
he was a monarch and lived like a king. In one of these 
verandas sits a lady worthy of the mansion; like it, large 
and stately and handsome. On the pretty little table by 
her side is a handsome old-fashioned silver tea-service; and 
as she lifts one of the delicate transparent china tea-cups, 
the costly rings on her fingers make quite a coruscation in 
the air. Near her stands a gorgeously appareled attend- 
ant, whose long coat is of green velvet, and has a rich bit 
of k incob let in at the breast— it represents the breast-plate 
of the Jewish high priests, in fact — and is richly embroid- 
ered in gold; he has a handsome shawl round his waist; a 
magnificent turban on his head. He is Mrs. Dyke’s -khan- 
saman, steward of the household, and is receiving his orders 
for the day. 

Footsteps are heard, and then a voice exclaiming, from 
the far end of the long veranda: 

‘‘ I say, Clem, the dun cow has calved — a very fine calf.’^ 

Then, from half-way up the veranda, 

Thatyoungpointer pup is sickening for the distemper.” 

Then, as he comes up to the table, “ I have been look- 
ing into the black mare’s mouth. It is, as I thought, lam- 
pus. ” 

The splendidly arrayed khansaman makes the new-comer 
a profound obeisance. Glancing from one to the other it 
seems as if the plains of Mamr6 and the turnip-fields of 
Norfolk had come together. The Enghshman has on a 
shooting-coat and a pair of leather gaiters; in one hand is 


90 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

a short dog-whip, in the other an instrument for admin- 
istering horse-balls. He is a strongly built man, a little 
above the middle height; his nose is short and straight; 
his mouth well cut, with a short upper lip; blue eyes; a 
full chin; alow, upright forehead; a round head covered 
with close-cropped auburn hair; a typical John Bull face 
of the refined and not the coarse type— the face of an En- 
glish gentleman. 

Those who hold that in matrimony, as in electricityj like 
repels and unlike attracts, would certainly ^ve found a 
confirmation of their views in Mr. and Mrs. Dyke. She 
was a thoroughly artificial woman; he an entirely natural 
man. You can see at once that with her, even when by 
herself, every action is studied; her rising up and her sit- 
ting down; every word and every gesture; every look of 
the eye, the dignified, the fascinating, the scornful, every 
smile of the mouth, the sweet, the condescending, the sar- 
castic. There is nothing assumed about him; the good- 
humor, good- nature, and good-temper depicted on his face 
belong to it by nature. She is of the drawing-room, he of 
the heath. 

This gentleman is the ‘‘magistrate and collector of 
Hajigunje, the highest civil functionary there. 

John Dyke, junior, of Brading, in the county of Norfolk, 
came of a very old family. The Dykes have been at Brad- 
ing from time immemorial. He belongs to what we may 
call the third generation of the Indian civil service. The 
first belonged to the time when the company declared that 
it did not want any gentlemen in its service; the second to 
the time when the service was recruited almost entirely 
from the middle-class; the third to the time when the great 
company had become the monarch of Hindoostan, when ap- 
pointments in its civil service had become great prizes 
sought for by cadets of the noblest families. But that all 
in it, in this its third stage, were men of high degree; 
while the competition, its next stage, brought in chiefly 
men of low degree, as the opponents of the latter measure 
asserted,' is not true. Most of the men in it came still 
from the middle-class, many from the lowest grades of it. 
There were in it the sons of hosiers and haberdashers as 
well as of bishops and of earls. There were plenty of men 
in it, and the sister military service, whose names were 
conspicuous over shop fronts in London. The services in 


91 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

India have always been honorably distinguished for afford- 
ing a career to the sons of such men as Bobby Burns and 
Allan Cunningham. Some of the most distinguished men 
in it have come from Scotch farm-houses. The heroic 
Nott was the son of a j^eoman; the great administrator 
Thomason the grandson of a mechanic; the sainted Henry 
Martyn the son of a miner; George Pollock^ the son of a 
saddler; Henry Lawrence and John Lawrence, the grand- 
sons of an Irish miller. 

It was the very same substance that hinders the climbing 
rustic from reaching the coveted leg of mutton that helped 
Mrs. Dyke’s father to mount the social pole — grease. The 
sudden expansion of the railway system enabled him to 
make a fortune in tallow. He sent his sons into crack 
cavalry regiments, his daughters to fashionable schools. As 
Miss Grandcourt, the “ Lady Principal ” of the ‘‘ College 
for Young Ladies,” at Minerva House, Montpelier Cres- 
cent, Brighton, informed her, with charming frankness. 
Miss Perkins was the only young lady in the remotest de- 
gree connected with trade she had ever received into her 
establishment. Miss Perkins remained with Miss Grand- 
court only long enough to acquire the lofty manner and 
stately deportment on which Miss Grandcourt so greatly 
prided berseif. She was barely seventeen when she went 
cut with her sister, who had married a partner in the well- 
known Calcutta firm of Cheetham, Fayle & Bolt. When 
the buxom and blooming Clementina PerkinS appeared 
amid the pale and languid beauties of Calcutta she created 
a prodigious furore. All the junior merchants, all the 
young ensigns in Fort WTlliam, all the young civil servants 
in Writer’s Buildings, fell desperately in love with her. 
But she would none of them. In fact, it very soon became 
known that the young lady intended to confine her choice 
to the civil service, and to the highest members of it. She 
had, in fact, made up her mind, of her own accord, from 
her own observation, to marry the member of the Bengal 
civil service then in Calcutta, who had the highest rank 
and the biggest pay; and she nearly did so, missing him by 
one place only. Age, looks, disposition, character, did not 
matter; so she was very lucky that there was nothing more 
to complain of in Mr. Moira Munro than that he was 
pompous and prosy, and the former was a quality she 
liked. To step at once to the head of a great establish- 


92 


THE TOUCHSTOJSTE. OF PERIL. 


merit, to a leading position in society, why, she would have 
considered the marrying of a toothless old man with half a 
dozen black children not too great a price to pay for that. 
Then came some years of perfect bliss in the imperial circles 
of Calcutta and Simla. There was but one objection to 
marrying Mr. Munro; he was near the end of his sei'vice. 
Too soon went by those happy years, too soon came the 
day when, she had to take her last view of the City of 
Palaces. Sad are the feelings of a dethroned monarch, sad 
the feelings of an ex-lord mayor. But Mrs. Munro had to 
suffer from more active annoyances than the memories of 
departed greatness. She insisted that Mr. Munro, instead 
of settling down in Bath or Cheltenham, as he himself 
wished, should take up the position of a county magnate. 
She found the real county families were not to be ‘ ^ rushed. 
The snubber came to be snubbed. She had prided herself 
on her proficiency in that delightful art; she now found she 
had been a mere amateur; hers had been cudgel play, 
these were rapier thrusts. They had settled, down in the 
county in which the most noble the Marquis of Deal, once 
Governor-general of India, had his seat. The marquis, 
who had been so warm in Calcutta, was very cold here. 
The Ladies Blanche and .Bthel Paradise, his sisters, who 
had been so civil and kind at Simla, were not at all kind 
and barely civil here. 

She, the tallow-chandlePs daughter, to give herself 
such airs/^ said Miss Wallop, a plain-faced, plain-dressed, 
plain-spoken little lady, whom Mrs. Munro, deceived by 
appearance, and in total ignorance, had snubbed; snubbed 
her, with a pedigree extending up to the time of the Con- 
queror, a connection extending through half the peerage. 
But this period of suffering did not last long. It was put 
an end to by the death of Mr. Munro, for whom, it was 
said, the exertion of having to put on and put off his own 
socks,- morning and evening, had proved, too much. Then ' 
Mrs. Munro had another uncomfortable experience. The 
only doors she found open to her in this period of desola- 
tion were those of her own people, and them she despised 
and looked down on. Then, by one of those infractions of 
justice, so common in this world, a piece of great good luck 
befell her. She became possessed of the true and loyal,,, 
affection of an honest man. It was a piece of good fortune'" 
she was incapable of rating at its proper value. Her sole 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


93 


thought in connection with it was that she had married 
again into the Bengal civil service; that she should return 
once more to the happy highlands of official life in India. 
Mr. John Dyke, being at home on furlough, had accident- 
ally come across the young and still blooming widow, had 
fallen in love with her, and married her. The only thing 
that troubled Mrs. Dyke was that she soon saw that, even 
with her aid, and she was an official intriguante of the 
first water, her husband was not likely to attain to the top- 
most grades of the service. She was not likely to rise again 
to the imperial heights, but must content herself with the 
provincial levels; could not hope ever again to be the lead- 
er of society in Simla or Calcutta, must content herself with 
being so in mere mofussil stations. But better so than to 
be nobody in England. Better reign in hell than serve 
in heaven. 

“ Any news in the paper, Clem.^^^ (her name was Maria 
Clementina) says Mr. Dyke, glancing at the pages of the 
‘‘ Delhi Gazette, which she holds in her hands. 

‘‘ Not much. There has been at outbreak of cholera at 
Hyzapore.^f 

‘‘ That is strange at this time of the year. Any deaths 
among the Europeans?^^ 

None of any consequence; only some uncovenanted 
people; a civil engineer and a customs officer; no one in 
society; no one one knows; some half-castes; Helen the wife, 
and John and William and Mary, the children, of Mr. De 
Souza. No one of any consequence. 

“ Of some consequence to De Souza, poor fellow!” says 
Mr. Dyke, softly. Then, 

‘‘ When are you going to ask the Neales to dinner, 
Clemr I want to see those girls. I hear they are very 
pretty. They are, are they not?” 

‘‘ Well, yes; in a certain mil km aidish, school-girlish kind 
of way. But they have no style, no bearing, no deport- 
ment.” 

May not be old enough for that yet,” says Mr. Dyke. 

Mrs. Dyke bridles up. She can not help making a per- 
sonal application of the remark. But a look at her hus- 
band ^s face confirms her in her second thought, that he is 
too simple-natured, ’too loyal to herself, to intend it so. 
But still there is severity in the tone of her observation. 

“People can not be too young for good manners. I 


94 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

was taught deportment at school. A very young girl may 
be called upon to fill a high position in life."*^ 

“lam most anxious to see them/' says John Dyhe, who 
has a great liking for pretty girls. Horses, dogs, and 
pretty girls. No; how should it run? 

“ You will see them at the band tliis evening, and all the 
young men making fools of themselves with them." 

John Dyke smiles. He is shrewder than his wife gives 
him credit for. He knows that his wifojsan bear no rival 
near the throne. ^ 

“ Yes; I believe they are all gone coons," he says, laugh- 
ing. “ Monk wrote me a very amusing letter, describing 
the solemn ami methodical manner in which Sawyer is pay- 
ing his attentions to the elder sister, and telling me that 
Dacres was teaching the younger one to ride — a dangerous 
business that. Master Sulivan Bird, too, has begun to cast 
sheep's eyes at the elder one." 

“ Dr. Sawyer is a donkey, and Mr. Dacres is a fiirt» and 
Sulivan Bird could not marry either of them, of course." 

“ Why not?" 

Because he is in the service, and his uncle is a mem- 
ber of council, and his mother is Lady Bird," said Mrs. 
Dyke, solemnly. 

“ What does all that matter? I remember they made 
old Bird a K.O.B." 

“ Mr. Bird could not marry the daughter of an indigo 
planter. I could not allow i t. " 

“ AVhy, what have you to do with it?" cried John Dyke, 
laughing. 

“ Is he not under us here? What would Lady Bird say? 
What would every one say? If he gives any indications of 
being serious in the matter, it will be your duty to write to 
the lieutenant-governor, and have him removed from here 
at once." 

“ Well, let us hope he is not serious. I suppose we may 
allow him a mild flirtation. " 

“ The paper says that Bareilly is likely to be vacant, 
John. It would be very nice if we could have ourselves 
transferred there." 

“ I am very happy where I am," says John Dyke. He 
generally was. “ The stables here are so good." 

“ I should like to get to a large station like Bareilly. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OE PERIL. 


95 


There you need not know every one^ as you have to in a 
small place like this. 

‘‘You have to in most stations, big or small. 

“ Only to a certain extent. You can choose your own 
friends, form your own set. But in a small place like this 
you are forced to be more or less intimate with people you 
would not care to know elsewhere; like the Neales, for in- 
stance. 

“Why should you not know the Neales anywhere? 
They are very nice people. They are gentlefolk,'’^ said Mr. 
Dyke, whose ideas on the subject of social status differed a 
good deal, as was to be expected, from those of his wife. 

“ One would not care to know them at Simla: they 
would not be in the highest set. Mrs. Loftie wrote to me 
that her season at Simla this year was quite spoiled by 
some people in the opium department, whose acquaintance 
she had made at that out-of-the-way place, Taklifpore. 
They went up to Simla only because Mrs. Loftie was there. 
Imagine how dreadful! Of course, they hung on to her 
skirts. If that sort of people once get hold of you they 
never let you go. 

“ The Neales are not that sort of people, and I like 
them,^'’ said Mr. Dyke, sturdily. “ But, in any case, we 
have to ask them to dinner; and these big dinners of yours 
are as official as those of the lieutenant-governor himself, 
and no more imply intimate friendship with those asked in 
your case than in his.^^ 

John Dyke was really much more cunning than one 
would have thought. 

“ Well, I suppose we ought to have a station-dinner be- 
fore we go out into camp again. Next Thursday is mut- 
ton-day.'’" 

Good mutton is obtainable in India, in all small stations 
at least, only by people clubbing together and feeding 
their own sheep. The days on which the club-mutton is 
available are the dinner-giving days; on them, in conse- 
quence, is often a great competition for guests. 

“Yes; Thursday will do very well,"'’ says Mr. Dyke. 
“ I will choose out the sheep to be killed. "" 

He was the manager of the sheep club, as well as fifty 
other things besides. 


m 


THE TOUCHSTOIS^E OF PERIL. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE BURRA KHANA, OR BIO DICKER. 

There have been dinner-parties at their own house and 
at Mrs. Zouch^s, but these have been small and friendly 
gatherings merely; Mr. Dyke^s is to be their first formal 
dinner-party. It is at it that they are to make their official 
debut’, the sisters are a .good deal excited about it, there- 
fore; it has caused them much thought as to what they 
shall wear. The married reader need not be told how Mr. 
Neale is ready half an hour before his women-folk; how he 
paces up and down the drawing-room, exclaiming, 

“ Are you not ready yet? The carriage has been at the 
door for twenty minutes.- The horses will catch cold; they 
came out from a hot stable, and are then kept standing in 
t{ie cold night air. Women never think anything of 
that. 

Mrs. Neale is in her daughters^ room, surveying them 
with fond, proud looks, giving the finishing touches to 
their adornment, to which Mary submits with some im- 
patience. 

“ Are you t3oming, Ann?^-’ shouts Mr. Neale; but when 
the girls hurry out they look so pretty, fresh, and fair that 
the impending words of reproach and rebuke die away 
upon his lips. Of course they arrive in ample time. 

As the sisters enter Mrs. Dyke^s drawing-room, of grand 
proportions, splendidly furnished, and now blazing with 
light, they find all the people of the station assembled 
there. Their arrival produces a commotion among the 
men, which makes Mrs.' Zouch smile and Mrs. Dyke frown. 
But they are all soon trooping into the dining-room — a 
splendid hall— and are soon seated round the table, with 
its beautiful table-cloth and its gleaming silver and bright, 
clear crystal. Mr. Dyke is a stanch Conservative; he has 
not given in to the new custom of dining a la Rvsse. He 
likes to see the dishes on the table, to have the cloth re- 
moved, and the dessert laid on the shining mahogany. So 
the table, with its silver side-dishes and huge gleaming 
dish-covers and silver candelabra and richly-cut glass, has 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


97 


an old-world look of magnificence, as has the splendid, 
mahogany sideboard, with its weight of silver-plate. 

Round the row of seated banqueters a row of swarthy 
attendants formed a dark background. (When you go out 
to dinner in India you take your own “ table attendant 
with you; thirty men seated at table will have thirty men 
standing behind them.) The scene is indicative of the 
contact, but not communion, brought about by our rule in 
India. The conjunction of Occident and Orient is focussed, 
as it were, at the end of th^ table, where sits Mrs. Dyke, 
in her magnificent ruby-velvet dress, while behind her 
stands the descendant of the prophet— her chief butler, 
Amir — iu his gorgeous green-velvet coat. 

The dinner is long and elaborate. There is soup of two 
kinds; there is, of course, the invariable tinned salmon; 
toothsome e^itrees attest Amir Alfs skill; there is the gram- 
fed mutton and the home-fed ducks; there is curry and 
game. 

‘^This curry is most tofa^^ (excellent), says Colonel 
Monk to Mrs. Dyke, whom he has, of course, taken in to 
dinner. ^ 

The puddings arid sweets again proclaim Amir Ali^s 
mastery of his art; there is cheese of a kind never seen in 
England, made expressly for India. Then, when Amir 
Ali removes the long table-cloth with one single, dexterous 
jerk, how beautiful is the face of the old mahogany din- 
ner-table; how brightly it smiles with the memory of many 
a Joyous banquet! And then is placed before Mr. Dyke the 
Madeira of many voyages and the good old port. The 
officers are in mess-dress, and their uniforms lend a greater 
brightness to the scene. The talk is brisk and lively; the 
laughter rings out loud and frequent. Mrs. Dyke is an 
admirable hostess, Mr. Dyke ,an admirable host — he from 
nature, she from art. The sisters enjoy themselves very 
much. Around them are friendly faces, beaming with 
kindly and admiring looks. They are young and pretty 
and well dressed. 

But there are dark lines across the brightest spectrum. 
Mary Neale^s enjoyment of the feast was not full and per- 
fect. It was not that she saw the handwriting on the wall. 
It was not that the coming events cast their dark shadows 
before for her more than the others; that she had a more 
prescient spirit than they. It was an immediate trouble; one 


08 THE TpUCHSTOKE OF PEEIL. 

inj&nitely smaller, but for the moment a big one. ^ It was 
not merely that Percy Daores had taken her sister in; that 
they sat opposite to her, and that she had to mark his ten- 
der assiduities, his eager attentions; it was almost more so 
that she herself was the subject of the marked attention 
and pronounced assiduities of Dr. Sawyer. She had been 
taken in to dinner by Sulivan Bird; it might have been 
better, for she might have been taken in by Dacres; it 
might have been worse, she might have been taken in by 
Steele; she liked the cheerful young civilian; in fact, a 
strong boy-and-girl friendship had sprung up between 
them. But then, if she had Bird on one side of her, she had 
Sawyer on the other. Dr. Sawyer^s attentions to her were 
now gross, open, palpable. Having made up Iris mind 
to attack this fair fortress. Dr. Sawyer had proceeded to do 
so in a set and formal manner; to open his parallels in the 
broad light of day. Just now Dr. Sawyer^s attentions take 
a professional form, and display themselves, to Mary^s in- 
tense annoyance, in a tender solicitude for her health. 

“ Hem!, I should not take too much of the salmon. Miss 
Heale. Those tinned things are not wholesome. 

“-I should avoid the curry. Miss h^eale; it is not a very 
wholesome dish, especially in the middle of a big dinner — • 
‘bilious.^ 

His attentions are as ponderous as they are pertinacious; 
he hands her the salt with solemn demonstration, and fills 
her glass in a meaning way. Mary^s annoyance is increased 
by seeing Mrs. Dyke and Colonel Monk laugh and smile as 
they glance from Dacres and Chloe on one side of the table 
to herself and Dr. Sawyer on the other. 

The ladies are by themselves in the drawing-room for 
some considerable time, as Mr. Dyke likes to push the bot- 
tle and linger over his cigar, and Colonel Monk over his 
hookah, he still keeping to that once universal habit of 
Englishmen in India. 

There were two strangers at dinner, two ladies, friends of 
Mrs. Dyke, who, after the IndiaiL fashion, were putting up 
with her on their, way ‘‘ down country. Mrs. Dyke forms 
a group with them to the exclusion of the othersy in doing 
so almost turning her back on Mrs. Neale. 

‘‘ You had Bellevue this year, Mrs. Haughton?^' 

‘‘Yes.^^ 

“ The last season I was at Simla it was occupied by the 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


99 


commander-in-chief, Sir Snmgeen Tope. Ah! what de- 
lightful parties we had there, so exclusive, so select; no one 
but people in the service/' 

‘‘ The place is getting too big," said Mrs. Haughton, 
with a sigh. You meet all sorts of people at the balls 
now — railway men, telegraph men — all sorts of people." 

But you only meet them in public places. It is not so 
bad as . being at a small station, where you have to meet 
them in private life," said Mrs. Dyke. How delighted 
you must be, dear Mrs. Bellairs, to get away from Cho- 
tanagar." 

‘‘ I am, indeed; it was horrid. We were perfectly over- 
run with opium-people and salt-people and indigo-plant- 
ers — ' ' 

‘‘•Oh, hush!" cries Mrs. Dyke, glancing round toward 
Mrs. Neale with a pretended deprecatory, but really 
amused and delighted smile, that makes Mary Neale very 
angry. But, of course, she had to pretend not to have 
heard the conversation which they all could not- help hear- 
ing. Gentle Mrs. Neale feels the unkindness more than 
the rudeness; why people should be unkind to one another 
in this world was to Mrs. Neale a perpetual source of won- 
der. Then Mrs. Dyke sails up to their group, and ad- 
dresses herself to them in the royal or vice-regal or sub- 
viceregal manner. 

“You and your sister ride a good deal," says Mrs. Dyke 
to Mary, looking down upon her. 

“Yes; agoodd^al." 

“ I am very fond of. riding myself. You ride your fa- 
ther's Arab, I hear. A small horse — a galloway. Aged — " 

“He is just rising seven, and fifteen hands high," said 
Mary, curtly. 

“ I call everything under sixteen hands low. I myself 
have never ridden a horse under sixteen hands. I always 
ride English horses. I remember the Marquis of Deal ex- 
pressing his astonishment at my riding my English horse 
Emperor — he cost four thousand rupees — at Simla. He 
thought him too big; but a big horse takes you up and 
.down hill better than a pony." 

“You would need a big horse," says Mary, quietly, 
glancing up at the lady's ample proportions. 

The shot tells. Mrs. Dyke ruffles her plumes, casts a 
lofty glance on the audacious speaker, and then sails 


100 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


majestically away. The remark was, perhaps, a little 
rude; but Mary had had provocation. Be rude to her 
mother! Depreciate Selim! 

Then the gentlemen come trooping in, and Mr. Dyke 
comes and seats himself by Mary^s side; and, strange to say, 
at once makes unconscious reparation for his wife^s dis- 
paragement of her dear horse, which had added so much to 
Mary^s anger. 

“You are very fond of riding, Miss Neale, I hear.^^ 

“ Yes, very. 

“ Which of your father ^s horses do you ride?^^ 

“ He has given me the little gray Arab, Selim.” 

“ As good a horse as ever stepped; but rather fidgety 
sometimes. ” 

“ Only when he is fresh. 

“ Did you live much in the country when in England?’^ 

“Yes; both/ the uncles with whom we used to stay lived 
in the country. 

“ Are vou fond of animals — dogs and cows and things? 

“Yes, very.^^ 

“ Then you must come some day and see my dogs and 
my farmyard. I have the best pointers in Northern India. 
I can show you some good cows, too, and a milch-bufl'alo 
that gives twenty seers of milk a day. We killed a pig 
yesterday that would have taken a prfee even in England. 
Do you like sausages?^’’ 

“ Yes; very much,” said Mary, smiling. 

“ Then I will send you some. You do not often get 
sausages in India. I can also show you some splendid 
gamecocks and some beautiful pigeons; also some Batavia- 
ducks; ” 

And so Mr. Dyke ran on. The great joke against him 
in his service was with regard to his model farm. 

He took a country gentleman ^s view of our rule in India. 
The government was the supreme landlord. Its first care 
should be the improvement of its great estate. It would 
be far better for itself and the people if it would devote 
less time to the passing of laws and more to the improve- 
ment of agriculture. Let it turn its attention to introduc- 
ing, not new acts, but improved methods of ploughing and 
reaping; of breeding and feeding cattle; take in hand the 
great question of the manuring of the land; turn the atten- 
tion of the people to horticulture, now for the first time 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 101 ' 

rendered possible by the security of its rule; be ever on the 
lookout to introduce new timber-trees, new vegetables, new 
grasses. He had induced the government to allow him to 
try a model farm in the last district of which he had 
charge. This had proved a disastrous failure. The im- 
proved plow would not do because the driver could not get 
at the tail of the cattle who drew the plow. The people 
preferred the ox that treadeth out the corn to the thresh- 
ing-machine, and preferred to let the winds of heaven do 
their winnowing. The fattening of pigs for pork was an 
abomination to the Mohammedans; of cattle for beef to the 
Hindoos. The Hindoos do not eat mutton, and the Mo- 
hammedans prefer the racy goat. The Hindoos do' not eat 
poultry: the better classes may not even touch the feather 
of a fowl; neither Mohammedans nor Hindoos eat eggs. 
The people were wedded to their old ways of dealing with 
the land, which, indeed, had served them not badly. a.\nd 
so the model farm remained for some little time as the 
place where long-bearded zemindars uttered lying en^ 
comiums; and then found its true purpose as a picnicking 
place for the English people. 

“ Then you must come and see our horses; see my wife^s 
horse. King George; and see the dogs. You must come 
some day this week, as we go into camp nWt week. If we 
encamp near your place we must have some rides together. 
I should like to see you on Selim and he glances at the 
figure which combines strength and grace in such happy 
proportions, with a simple, honest, open look of admira- 
tion. 

Kow comes the demand for music and song. 

“I have not played much for years, says Mrs. Dyke, 
in response to the proper solicitations, the respectful en- 
treaties. I used to play duets with Lady Blanche and 
Lady Ethel Paradise continually at Calcutta, and at Simla, 
when they were out here with their brother, the Marquis 
of Deal; but I have played very little since; very little."* 

And then Mrs. Dyke plays one of her four or five stock 
show-pieces with much rattle and self-confidence. But one 
of her lady guests sings, and the other plays exceedingly 
well; and Dacres trolls out his lusty songs, The Village 
Blacksmith " and “ Cheer, Boys, Cheer."" And Colonel 
Monk sing& old-fashioned songs, such as ‘‘ The Saucy 
Arethusa,"" in the old-fashioned way, with many a shake 


102 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


and quaver. And we know how beautifully Mrs. N’eale 
played, how well her daughters sung. And so, again and 
again, is she asked to play; again and again are they asked 
to sing. Mrs. Dyke^s yawn grows wider and wider behind 
her jeweled fingers; and, at last, Mr. Neale declares, in 
angry tones, that the horses can not be kept standing in 
the cold any longer. And so, like every other feast since 
ever the world began, this feast too came to an end. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE OLD PROPRIETOR AND THE NEW. 

It is the midday hour, when the toiling millions of India 
cook and eat the* one meal of the daj^ The old zemindar, 
old Dya Ram, is seated on the rough bedstead on which 
Dacres and Steele saw him lying that day when they took 
him for a corpse; he has eaten his unleavened cakes, not of 
fine wheaten flour as once he ate, but of course niaize. He 
is smoking his hookah, not a gorgeous work of art, with 
silver bowl and velVet-covered tube, such as once he 
smoked, but a cheap, common one, made out of a cocoa- 
nut-shell and couple of reeds, such as you see in the 
coarse hands of any plowman or carter. To liim, thus 
seated, comes his loutish son. 

“ Shall we go down to Luchmee Pershad, and ask him 
once more to lend us the money?’' he asked, in*surly tones. 
The old man’s air of calm repose at once gives way to a 
look and movement of anger. 

“ I can not bear to go near him, the miserly, base-born 
scoundrel — our sup planter. But as you will." AVe must 
get your sister married if we can.” 

The 4)ld man takes one long, last, rattling pull at the 
hookah, lifts his long, thin length from off the bedstead, 
adjusts his tattered and dirty w^added long coat, girds his 
waistcloth round his loins, takes his long bamboo staff in 
his hand. 

Father and son walk to the edge of the mound on which 
they have passed their lives, on which stands their dis- 
mantled ancestral home. They pause ere they descend. 
Beneath them lies the fruitful, grove-covered plain, bathed 
in golden sunshine. Grove and field, tank and^ temple, and 
tree-embowered hamlet, combine to make up many a pretty 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

picture. But these they see not. The air is filled with tht 
pleasant chorus of birds pouring out their notes high in 
the heavens, down on the earth; of men singing at the 
wells; the lowing of cattle; the tinkling of their bells. 
But this they hear not. Close beneath them lies a curving 
arm of the lake; its central waters sparkling in the brilliant 
sunshine; its margin dark with the frown of groves, bright 
with the smile of fields; those monuments reflected so 
peaceably in the water mark the spot where the flames 
iave claimed their human victims, but they serve to adorn, 
not mar the scene; here stands a tall, tapering temple, 
there a group of slender palm-trees. The close-lying plots 
of herbs and vegetables; of saffron and tobacco; the fields 
of wheat and barley; of snowy opium, crimson spotted; of 
golden sugar-cane, and dark-green cotton, spread out into 
gay bands of abundance, or intertwine in rich knots of 
fruitfulness, and, with the abounding sunshine, make up a 
revel of the earth. But all this father and son heed not. 
They survey the crop-giving, hamlet-covered plain as a 
whole; and their one thought in connection vvith it is ex- 
pressed by the old man when he says, ‘‘ I owned all that 
once, my son; you should own.it now.^'’ 

They descend the mound; they pass through the filthy 
outskirts of the village, with its horrid sights and horrid 
smells; by the golgotha, where the dogs and crows and 
hideous vultures, with gory necks, are tearing at the carcass 
of a cow, where skulls and bones lie about in ghastly pro- 
fusion. They pass by the miserable huts of the potters and 
workers in leather, with their attendant heaps of filth, at 
which the pigs are performing their filthy office. They 
come to the better houses of the village, most of which, 
with their clean, fresh-plastered walls and floors, look quite 
bright and cheerful. Along the side of the street the old 
grandsires are sitting basking in the sun; these all salute 
the old man and his son respectfully as they pass by, clad 
though they may be in garments no better than their own. 
In the old days the great object of the village had been to 
keep as high up the mound, as close under the fort, as 
possible; but in these more safe and peaceful times of En- 
glish rule it had begun to descend to the more convenient 
lower levels. They come to the margin of the lake, and 
pass, through one corner of a huge mango grove, in whose 
dark leafy aisles stands many a memorial to mark the spot 


1 - THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

where conjugal love had despised the sharpness of death. 
That tall, one commemorates the sati of Dya Ram^s grand- 
mother, who had immolated herself on the funeral pyre of 
her husband in the prime of her life and the fullness of her 
beauty; who had left her children to follow her spouse; who 
had gone with him when there lay before her the prospect 
of a long life of power and wealth, and all the pleasure 
they can bestow; who, a tender woman, had sat unmoved 
amid the roaring flames with her dead husband^s head upon 
her knee. This courage and love and faithfulness had 
formed the subject of many a local ballad and lay. A 
little further on stood the flne bathing-place and handsome 
temple built by Dya Ram's father. How could the people 
forget the old family: Its memorials were all around them; 
always before their eyes. Dya Ram and his son now arrive 
at a wide, open space that lies between the foot of the 
mound and the. margin of the lake. In the center of this 
stands a fine well, having round it a very large and hand- 
some masonry platform. At the upper end of this space 
rises a large brick building, whose still bright walls mark 
its recent construction, as its lofty gateway marks its im- 
portance, or, at all events, its pretensions. The plan of all 
houses in the East, of all houses in the world during a cer- 
tain period of its history, of all the houses which are above 
the grade of a mere hut or hovel, is exactly the same. De- 
fense, safety, was the primary object in their construction. 
It was needful that every man's house should be his castle. 
The plan is simply that of a block of buildings surround- 
ing a central courtyard, the entrance to which is through 
one single gateway only. This gateway is the point of de- 
fense. It IS the point of contact with the outer world. It 
is here the enemy is met; it is here the friend is welcomed. 
It is in its cool and airy shade that the retainers and the 
men of the family lounge and sit and watch the move- 
ments of the world without. 

The gate-way is the most important part of the house, 
and the one most gazed at by the public eye. It is there- 
fore made the most ornamental part of the outside of the 
house. It is generally beautiful, while the rest of the out- 
side is, usually, plain or ugly. As of private, so of public 
buildings, the gate-way forms the most important and 
prominent outer feature; and the gate- ways of the palace- 
fortresses and mausoleums afford some of the most noble 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 105 

and beautiful specimens of the Mohammedan architecture 
of India. 

The usual mode of construction, by which the house 
presents to the open air a perfectly blank surface, broken 
only by small and jealously barred windows on all sides, 
except only just at the gate-way, is departed from somewhat 
in the building before us, for on either side of the demL* 
vaulted gate- way are some rooms and corridors which open 
outward. This marks the transition, as it were, between 
the insecurity of the past and the not-^^et-completely- 
trusted security of the present. In one of these corridors 
stand many carts and bullocks; and here, too, are stored 
great heaps of firewood and of fodder. At one end of it is 
carefully stalled a stout* sleek little mare. Many retainers 
are moving about, sitting still, lazily lounging. It is the 
house of a man of importance. In a small room, close by 
the side of the gate-way, on a raised wooden dais or plat- 
form, covered with a handsome carpet, sits a short, stout 
little man, the owner of the mansion — a man just arrived 
at middle age. His full cheeKs and big mouth and turned- 
up nose give a look of jovialty to the face, much at variance 
with the cold, crafty, snake-like look in the little eyes, which 
are of that peculiarly yellowish-gray color to be found only 
in the East. Though the face has no fineness or nobility 
of feature, the hands and feet are very small and delicate; 
and they, with the light ohve tint of the skin, betoken im- 
munity from hard labor and exposure to the sun for many 
generations back. His wadded long coat is of silk; on his 
head is a highly embroidered skull-cap; in one ear is a 
large circlet of thick gold wire, on which is strung one 
single, uncut emerald of great size; on his fingers are many 
rings, and there is a thick band of silver round each great 
toe. He leans against a heap of soft cushions. On the 
floor beside the dais is laid a piece of stamped velvet, on 
which stands a high and handsome hookah: the bowl to 
hold the tobacco has a silver cover, from which depend 
. many silver chains; and at the end of the long, winding, 
velvet-covered tube, through which the smoke is drawn, is 
a handsomely chased silver mouth-piece. The little man 
dallies with the tube in luxurious ease, and, putting the 
carved end of the mouth-piece tenderly between his pan- 
stained lips, draws in and puffs forth slowly the highly- 
scented tobacco. Then eructations freely delivered proclaim 


106 THE TOUCH STOKE OF PEKIL. 

that he has dined recently and well. That he should in no 
way strive to smother or subdue these ebullitions, but 
should give them free play, emit them, in fact, with dem- 
onstration, is by no means a sign that he is a coarse or 
low or ill-bred man. This and other actions of like nature 
are not regarded in India as grave social solecisms, as they 
are with us, but rather as great social successes. A man 
does not perpetrate them, but achieves them. This is the 
case even in the highest social circles. It is one of those 
things that make the intercourse between Englishmen and 
natives somewhat constrained. 

Luchmee Pershad (so named after the goddess of wealth 
and cheating) belongs to the caste of scribes and money- 
lenders. His ancestors have been the bankers in this village 
for many generations back. He has become a large landed 
proprietor. Most of the lands that once belonged to Dya 
Kam have passed into his hands. But he still continues 
the old business, which, indeed, he could not very well give 
up, even if he wished, for there was no means^ of coming to 
a speedy settlement with his very numerous creditors. He 
sits in this outer chamber because he likes to survey the 
scene before him, and because it is more convenient for the 
transaction of business. 

As Dya Ram and his son advance across the open space 
the old man’s eyes gleam with fury as they rest on the 
newly built mansion. It has been built very largely with 
the materials, the bricks and the timber, taken from his 
own ancestral dwelling-place, the fort on the mound. His 
roof tree has been pulled down in order that this one may 
he reared. The house of Luchmee Pershad has, in every 
sense, arisen out of the ruins of his own. 

When Luchmee Pershad sees the two men coming up to 
the house a change comes over his face. The look of 
luxurious ease and calm self-complacency gives way to one 
of trouble and annoyance. He abandons his easy, lounging 
attitude, gathers his legs close under him, and sits up stiffly 
against a bolster. The half-open mouth closes, the loose 
lips are brought together, the mustache, which he wears 
brushed upward, seems to bristle more fiercely. But when 
the father and son reach the foot of the dais he greets them 
blandly and in a tone of welcome. 

“ Ram I Ram ! Salaam jee, salaam he cried, in greet- 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 107 

Ap ha mizaj hysa hyeV’ (How are you disposed?) 
he asks, politely; aud Ay hi innayut (By your 

favor), he replies to their return inquiry if he is well. 
“ By thy e ! hythye (Be seated! be seated!) be cries, and 
the old man and his son seat themselves at the very edge of 
the dais. 

“ Chillum peo ge? Pan Klias ge (Will you smoke a 
chillum? will you eat a pdn?) he asks. 

Both father and son decline his proffered hospitality. 

“ Why do you not come down oftener? Come down 
oftener and have a chat. You must be very melancholy 
sometimes up in the fort?’^ 

‘‘We are always melancholy, day and night, says the 
old man. 

“ The cold falls very heavily of a night now.’^ 

“ Yes; we find it very cold in our shed,^^ says Dya Ram. 
“But you can not feel the cold with your shawls and 
wraps — a handsome shawl lay upon the dais — “ and in 
this fine house of yours. 

“ W'ell, no; we are warm’ enough in it,” said Luchmee 
Pershad, with a slight chuckle at the double meaning in his 
words. But he did not like these comparisons. However 
much his own elevation and the other ^s dov\nfall, so largely 
brought about by his own efforts, might be delightful to 
him, he did not like allusion to it. The matter was too 
recent. He was the more sensitive on the subject because 
of the feeling, personal and inherited, of the other having 
been the ruling family, his own a subject one, for so many 
generations past. The contrast was the more galling be- 
cause he knew that it dwelt in the minds of the people about 
him. He had displaced Dya Ram, but by no means re- 
placed him. He knew that notwithstanding all the salaams 
of the people to himself, Dya Ram, in his tattered long 
coat, commanded more of their homage than he did, for 
all his fine shawls. He knew that they did not recognize 
him as their head man and chief, though he was owner of 
all the lands, and that they would never do so so long as Dya 
Ram was on the spot. His present great aim and object 
was to get him and his son away. 

“Grain is very dear just now, ” he said, to change the 
subject. 

“It brings us almost to starvation-point,” said Dya 


108 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

Karii; but what does it matter to you? Fifteen seers for 
the rupee;, or twenty-five, makes no difference to you/^ 
Luchmee Pershad had on. his tongue a bitter speech about 
fools starving while wise men fed, but he suppressed it. 
He knew pretty well what had brought the old man there, 
and he did not wish to mar any chance it might give him 
of effecting his long-wished-for object. So he renewed his 
civilities. 

“ Let me order them to fill you a chillum of this excel- 
lent tobacco. You do not often get it so good. ” 

He referred merely to the quality of the tobacco; but the 
old man took the remark as a personal one. 

“ Yo,^^ he said, sharply; “ I could once get it as good, if 
not better, than you could. But times have altered with 
both of us. 

The old man would keej) harping on that one distasteful 
theme. Luchmee Pershad ^s choler began to rise, but he 
kept silence. 

“ You have forgotten what we came about, said the 
surly young man to his father.- 

“I have come for some money, said Dya Earn, 
abruptly. 

“ Money! where can I get money 

“To me, at this time, the need for the money is very 
great. ^ ^ 

“You are always wanting money. 

“ I generally am in want of it, certainly. But I want 
this for a special purpose. 

“ But where am I to get it?” 

“ You said Dya Earn; “ what deficiency of money is 
there with you? Your house is a treasury.-’^ 

“ My expenditure is very heavy. I have to keep so many 
servants; I have to feed so many cattle. My elephant costs 
a great deal. ” 

“ This is all talk,” said Dya Earn, roughly; “ your in- 
come is very large.” 

“ Well, Providence has blessed my store,” said Luchmee 
Pershad, who was a very pious Hindoo, had made many 
pilgrimages, and fed many Brahmins. “ I do not mind 
letting you have a few rupees; how many do you want?” 

“ A thousand rupees.^ ’ 

“A thousand rupees! Good! Where am I to get a 


THE TOUCnSTOHE OF PERIL. 109 

thousand rupees? And how are you to repay a thousand 
rupees ?^^ 

“ Look here,” said the old man, earnestly, I want this 
money for a purpose of the greatest moment. It is a pur- 
pose that should interest you, too, considering the favors 
you and yours have received at our hands. You know 
that my daughter is twelve years old, and it is time for her 
to leave her father^ s house. When she was a child I did 
not consider any of the offers of marriage made for her 
good enough; and then when poverty came upon us I could 
not command any offers that I considered good enough. 
A man may marry into a caste below his own, but a wom- 
an must marry into a caste above her own. I allowed this 
one girl to live for Kuniadan, but how often have I since 
wished that the opium had been put between her lips too. 
However, Peeloo, the barber, came to me yesterday and^ 
said that a marriage could be arranged with the son of" 
Eoop Singh, the Thakur of Jhowka. He, too, is not rich, 
but it is an excellent house; he is a chouhan rajput, But 
the marriage will cost me at least a thousand rupees; it can 
not be managed for less. So I have come to you for it.-'' 

I have not the money. I have just had to- pay up the 
half-year^s rent to the government, and I have not realized 
all the rents from my tenants. ^ 

“ That is a mere excuse,'’^ said Dya Earn. ‘‘ What is a 
thousand rupees to you?^ ^ 

‘‘ Well, certainly, it is of the utmost importance that 
your daughter should be speedily married, said Luchmee 
Pershad; “ that she -should be in a husband '’s, and not in 
her father’s house. I will try and get you this money.” 

“ I always said that you were not as hard-hearted as my 
son would make you out,” interposed the old man. 

Luchmee Pershad gave the young fellow a malevolent 
look, and then went on: 

“ But what security am I to have?” 

“ I will give you a bond.” 

That would not be security enough,” said Luchmee 
Pershad, with a faint smile. 

My son will sign the bond too.” 

‘‘ One pauper standing security for another pauper.” 

‘‘He will not always be a pauper. He is going out into 
service. He hopes to get employment under the Eajaji of 


110 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

Gwalior. He will be able to repay you, even if I can 
not.^^ 

Luchmee Pershad fixed his eyes on the heavy counte- 
nance of the loutish young man with a scornful look. 

“ He earn money! he repay me! the oaf, the loon, the 
lout! Ha! ha! ha! That is good!^^ 

Old Dya Kam^s eyes were like those of a hawk; Luchmee 
Pershad ^s like those of a ferret; in the lad^s eyes shone, at 
this moment, the dull, red light that glows in the eyes of 
an enraged bull. But he only said, in his usual sulky tone 
of voice: 

“ I will repay you anything, all we may owe you, some 
day, in full.'’^ 

There was a meaning in his words which was shortly to 
appear. He was shortly to have a day of terrible and final 
reckoning with Luchmee Pershad. 

“ No,^^ said Luchmee Pershad, “ I can let you have this 
money on one condition, and one condition only; I will let 
you have it as the purchase-money of the tank fields, though 
of course they are not worth nearly so much; but I will do 
it to oblige you. 

The tank fields were the best in the village. They were 
situated, as’ the name showed, by the side of the lake. 
They had formed part of the home-farm of Dya Eam^s 
family for generations back. They were the lands which 
were, in every respect, their own; of which they were the 
hereditary tenants and occupiers, as well as the landlords. 
It was these fields alone that now stood between Dya Ram 
and beggary. Their produce, indeed, would have enabled 
him to live in comfort after a lowly fashion^ had he not 
been so deeply in debt. These fields formed their only 
anchorage in the place; parted from them they must drift 
away, as they knew, and as Luchmee Pershad knew. 

“ I can not sell those fields, as I have often told you 
before. They are part of my life. They have been in my 
family for generations back. 

“ It is, in verity, most important that your daughter 
should be married at once; and here has come a most ex- 
cellent chance, such a one as may never come again. And 
a thousand rupees will enable you to have a wedding worthy 
of your name, a grand procession (I will lend you my ele- 
phant), and a great feast. You will be able to make all 
the presents required, and to fee the Brahmins liberally. 


Ill 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

The old man shook his head. 

“You have but this one daughter. From her may come 
great shame to you. Now you have the opportunity of 
placing her in a good house, of deriving honor from her 
marriage; you had better not miss the chance. Shall it be 
a bargain 

“ No!” cried the old man, fiercely; “ not even to marry 
my daughter will I sell those fields. It is not only that we 
should be beggars without them; I could not bear the 
thought that I had not passed on those fields, which came 
to me from my forefathers, to my son. 

“ But he is going into service — going out to earn his own 
livelihood,^ ^ said Luchmee Pershad, with a slight sneer. 

“ No, said the old man, “you shall not have the 
fields. 

“ Then you can not have the money. 

“ And is this your gratitude for all the benefits you have 
received at our hands? for all our favors?^^ 

“ Benefits! favors! What benefits? what favors?’^ 

‘^Why, has not your family made money by mine for 
generations back? Were not my father and grandfather 
the patrons and supporters of your father and grandfather? 
How often did not your father take shelter in our fort, and 
bring all his valuables into it? How often did we not save 
your house from plunder, your family from death? Why, 
without us they could not have lived. You were glad 
enough of our protection then.^^ 

“ Yes; and what great sums of money have we not paid 
for that protection? We got nothing that we dirl not pay 
for. Why, I have entries on my books now of money taken 
by your father and never returned. We have gained 
nothing by you. 

“ Gained nothing by us!^^ cried the old man, fiercely. 
“Who is now the owner of this village, you or I? Whose 
house is now roofless, yours or mine? Who owns this house, 
you or I? Is not this my tattered jacket? Is not that your 
handsome shawl?” 

“ I have been careful; you have been careless and waste- 
ful. 

“ Entries on your books! Have you not enforced claims 
against us that you could not once have enforced? Taken 
away our lands because of false debts?^^ 




THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


‘‘ I have but taken the lands that were mortgaged to me 
for money borrowed — what the law allowed me/^ 

“ The law, yes. The law would not have helped you 
once. Mortgages for money that had been repaid you over 
and over again! Your father and grandfather could never 
have enforced mortgages. You got me into your net as 
the spider does the fly, and now you wish to suck me dry. ^ ^ 

“Are we to have the money or not?^^ said the young 
fellow, slowly. 

“ On the terms mentioned.-’^ 

“ I can not part with the tank fields,^ ^ said Dya Ram. 

“ Then I can not part with the money. 

“ It is plain what you want,^^ said Dya Ram, raising his 
voice. “You want to drive us away from here. We are 
as ‘grit in your eyes. Our presence is hateful to you in 
everyway. It reminds you of the past; it reminds the 
people of the past. You do not sit on the hill-top as we 
did; your house is still low down. You have not yet got 
above the level of your father^s shop.’^ 

“ Regulate your tongue, or it will not be the better for 
you. 

“ I order my tongue at your bidding! You, a haii, tell 
me, a raj put, to mind my words! You who were once as 
my servant !^^ 

“ You are growing old and foolish.’’^ 

“ I am old, and I may be foolish, but T am not a liar and 
a thief. I have not robbed my benefactors.^^ 

“ Benefactors! What was your father but a thief and a 
robber? — a}^, and a murderer, too. He should have been 
hung. 

“ Hung!^^ said Dya Ram, furiously. “And you say 
this, you blackguard, you scoundrel, you brother-in-law 

“ Brother-in-law you!^' cried Luckmee Pershad, furi- 
ously, in return. 

“ You base-born, badly bred, foul-fed son of an unchaste 
mother,^ ^ shouted Dya Ram. 

“ Thou incestuous one! thou spendthrift! thou old de- 
ceiver! thou hoary in iniquity! thou owl! thou pig! thou 
crack-crib! thou robber! thou fool! thou madman!'^ rat- 
tled out Luchmee Pershad. 

* “ Brother-in-law is a term of abuse in India, and considered a 
most offensive one.” 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


113 


And now the flood-gates being opened, there flowed forth 
a torrent of abase, rank and fetid as stream of foulest 
sewer. The foulest language of the worst back slum of an 
English seaport town is fragra,ut and odorous, compared 
with the abuse of an Indian bazaar. If you want to hear 
the perfection of bad language you must go to the carnal 
East. It is in tropical lands that these flowers of rhetoric 
are most luxuriant and most rank. The indelicate lan- 
guage of the West is clothed and garmented, compared to 
the indelicate language of the ‘East. What an Eastern 
tornado is to an Englilh storm, what an Eastern river is to 
an English stream, what an Eastern forest is to an English 
wood, that is the foul language of India to the foul language 
of England. 

Dya Bam and Luchmee Pershad fell to making personal 
allusions to one another; fell to making personal allusions 
to one another's female relations — mothers, sisters, wives, 
and daughters — which would make the hair of an English 
navvy, or even of a Spanish muleteer, stand on end. 

Dya Bam had sprung to bis feet, and so gained the ad- 
vantage of position. He poured down his abuse from 
above. . 

Luchmee Pershad had shrunk back a little when the old 
man first hung over him, but he was not deficient in a cer- 
tain ferret-like courage, and so shot up his abuse from be- 
low without ceasing. But there was one speech on which 
he would not have ventured had he not seen that two or 
three of his retainers were close at hand. , 

Your daughter is now of a marriageable age! Send 
her down to me. I will take her into my house as a concu- 
bine. 

The presence of his servants notwithstanding, it very 
nearly fared ill with Luchmee Pershad at that moment, for 
Dya Bam swung his club high into the air, but his son 
caught his arm, and then dragged him forcibly away. 

Come away! there are too many against us here.-’^ 

“ I do not care how many there are! Let me go! You 
should help me instead of hindering me ! Help me to kill 
him! I will dash his brains out! You are a coward — a 
laggard. You heard me abused, and you said never a 
word. You help me neither by speech nor action. ” 

‘‘ The time has not come yet. We can do nothing now.^^ 


114 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


Half a dozen of Luchmee Pershad^s retainers had now 
assembled together. 

Come away/' and he half led, half dragged his father 
across the open space, Luchmee Pershad's unceasing invec- 
tive pursuing them. 

‘‘ I have reduced you to a poor condition! Do you call 
this a poor condition? I will reduce you to utter beggary! 
You and your old wife shall sit by the road-side begging! 
Your son shall pass his life in jail! Your daughter shall be 
a prostitute in the streets of Hajigunje." 

The father and son had now got to the side of the well, 
where they met a group of villagers drawn together by the 
sounds of the altercation. 

‘‘ Shall we help you to go back and fight them?" said 
some of the men. 

‘‘We should gain nothing by fighting now," said the 
stolid son. “The time has not come yet. It will come 
soon, and I will then make him a payment in full — a pay- 
ment in full." 


CHAPTER XVL 

THE FESTIVE V^EEK BEGINS. ‘ 

And now all is bustle and excitement in the usually quiet 
station of Hajigunje. It resounds with the groaning of 
camels and the hammering of tent-pegs. Tents rise up in 
every compound, and under the shelter of every convenient 
group of trees, for the festive Christmas week has come. 

“ I say, Steele," cries Dacres, running into that gentle- 
man's room in the forenoon, “here are Jones and West, 
and they want a peg, and I forgot to order in a bottle of 
brandy. May I take yours? Thank you. " 

“ Oh, Steele," says Dacres, hurrying into Steele's room 
in the afternoon, “ may I take your bottle of brandy again? 
Here is Ramsay come in very hot and thirsty, and wants a 
drink. And this bottle of soda-water? Thanks, very 
much," as he hurries away with them. 

There is a peculiar look on the long-nosed captain's face 
as he rubs the end of that long nose. Is his curmudgeon 
spirit vexed at the enforced hospitality? Is he thinking 
that Dacres will get the credit for that hospitality while he 
supplies the means? There is no doubt that the bottle of 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


115 


brandy will be better dispensed in Percy Dacres^s hands 
than in his own. Dacres^s loud and hearty, ‘‘ Have a 
drink, old fellow, would gain more credit for one glass of 
liquor than Steele^ s quiet handing of the bottle for half a 
dozen. 

There is a great art in giving. Constant and quiet giv- 
ing is not valued. Let it be infrequent and emphatic. 

Percy Dacres is the life and soul of the whole business. 
He manages everything: he arranges the billiard matches, 
and the racket matches, and the cricket matches; is the 
manager of the croquet tournament and the ball; secretary 
to the races. The sisters find it very delightful to be the 
favored friend of him who is the universal manager and 
controller. Mr. Neale has taken a house in the station, 
and Dacres is in and out of it all day long, now giving 
them the earliest information, now seeking their assistance 
and advice. 

“ I have brought you the cards for the races. No one 
else has got them yet. 

“ You look very hot,^^ says the kind-hearted Mrs. Neale. 

‘‘ I am so. I have been out in the blazing sun for the 
past two hours having the cricket-ground rolled and 
watered. These brutes of natives will do nothing unless 
you stand over them.^^ 

You should not be out at this hour,^^ and tiie faces of 
the sisters express their concern. 

I have been hard at work all the morning. I can get 
no one to help me. Sawyer and Bird are too busy. Steele 
will not do so, of course. It was only after great grum- 
bling that I could get him to subscribe to the week^s 
amusements at all."’’ 

The faces of the girls express their disgust at the mean- 
ness. 

“ I have to be rushing about all day long, now attending* 
to this thing, now to that. 

‘‘ I am sure we ought all to be very thankful to you,^^ 
says Mrs. Neale. 

So we ought, says Mary, decisively. 

“ So we ought, says Chloe, softly. 

Stop and have some tiffin with us,^’ says Mrs. Neale, 
and Dacres stops, nothing loath; and a plateful of cold 
hump and a bottle of Bass soon remove all traces of his 
fatigue. 


116 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


Each day passes in a perfect whirl of gayety. It begins 
with the early morning ride. Then comes the receiving 
and pa3dng of visits; the attendance at some public event 
in the afternoon, or in the forenoon and afternoon both; 
the drive in the evening; the dinners at night. 

In the morning rides it is no consolation to Mary, when 
she sees Dacres and Chloe sweeping along in front, to have 
Dr. Sawyer on his little cream-colored pony by her side. 
It is not merely that his blatant love-making is disagree- 
able, but his appearance ■ is ludicrous, and Mary is very 
keenly sensitive to ridicule; and it is very difficult for their 
steeds, so different in size and temper, to keep pace to- 
gethei'. It is much nicer when Sulivan Bird is with them. 
She likes the cheery, gentlemanly young fellow. It is de- 
lightful to have her Selim speeding along by the side of his 
long-paced Cavalier. It is a pretty sight to see the little 
man on horseback — he has so good • a seat, is so thorough a 
horseman. But here, too, there is a trouble. He, too, she 
begins to think, is paying her attention in a quiet sort of 
wa}^ Why will not men be satisfied with friendship? This 
does not appear when they are with others, but it has begun 
to do so when they are by themselves. They have become 
great friends. He has told her all about liimself, his life 
at Eton, in his home in Hampshire, about his mother and 
sisters, about the yet recent Haileybury time, about his 
likes and dislikes, and they have had many a laugh together; 
their faces brighten when they meet. He is almost as fresh 
from England as she is, but a very little older. She is 
more of a woman than he of a man. They are really boy 
and girl together. _But of late, when they have been alone 
together, Mary has begun to see something deeper in his 
eyes than the look of boyish friendship — something veiled. 
.There is a certain trouble in his usual frank and free 
manner, a certain appeal in his services. 

One morning, as they turn a corner, and Bird is talking 
to Mary, as he half turns round in his saddle, with a touch 
of the love-sickness on his face, they come on the collector 
and his wife driving in their carriage. 

'' I told you so!"^ cries John Dyke, with a laugh, when 
they have got by. 

“ I must look to this,^^ says Mrs. Dyke, with a frown of 
her fine eyebrows. “ I will speak to Mr. Bird; I will write 
to his mother. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


117 


The croquet tournament took place the first day. fi’he 
j)rize was a bracelet given by Colonel Monk, so valuable a 
one as to add greatly to the keenness of the rivalry. Great 
was the excitement at the drawing for partners, great the 
joy of those who drew good ones, great the sorrow of those 
who drew bad ones. AA^ho shall depict the ecstasy of Chloe 
Keale when she found she had drawn Percy Dacres — ^he, 
the loved one — he, the good player! And now the lists are 
entered, where the mallet takes the place of the lance. AVe 
have not time to chronicle each encounter at length; how 
Colonel Monk and Mrs. Zouch overthrew Dr. Sawyer and 
Miss Oldham, a visitor; how Mrs. Dyke and Sulivan Bird 
overcame Mary Neale and Major Zouch. The final strug- 
gle lies between Mrs. Dyke and her partner, and Chloe 
Neale and her partner; fierce is the struggle, fierce the 
partisanship; but the magnificent play of Percy Dacres 
carries the day. And as was the face of the fair Rowena 
when the ‘‘ unknown knight presented her with the crown 
of Love and Beauty,'’^ such was the face of the pretty 
Chloe when Dacres handed her the handsome bracelet — the 
prize of his prowess. 

Mrs. Dyke declares,^"’ says Mrs. Zouch to the sisters 
the next day, “ that she never will believe that the drawing 
was quite fair by which Dacres became your partner. Miss 
Chloe. So strange a coincidence! Just the two right per- 
sons — you know what I mean. She thinks Dacres must 
have managed it.^’’ 

Chloe^s delightful cheeks become pink, red, crimson. 

“ I should give it back, Chloe,'’'’ cries Mary, hotly. “ It 
would not matter if it was a mere trumpery ornament, but 
such a valuable bracelet as that. 

That is the very reason why Chloe would rather not give 
it back; and her warm cheeks lose their glow at the bare 
thought of it. 

“ Oh, you must say nothing about it,^^ cries Mrs. Zouch, 
in a frightened voice. ‘‘ I should not have repeated what 
Mrs. Dyke said.-’^ 

But when Mrs. Zouch is alone with Chloe — they have be- 
come bosom friends — shortly afterward, she says to her — 

“ I believe Dacres did manage it, my dear. He wanted 
you to have the bracelet. But do not tell your sister so.^^ 

Then there was the racket match and the billiard match 
and the cricket match. AVherever Englishmen are gathered 


118 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


together— on the plains of India, flat as pancakes, amid 
the precipitous slopes of the Himalaya, where it is difficult 
to get enough level ground to plant the wickets on — there 
must he cricket. Then there were the races. Wherever 
Englishmen are gathered .together, by the shores of the 
Black Sea or among the mountains of Cabul, there must 
be horse-racing. 

Surely never did any races anywhere produce such inter- 
est and excitement as did thqse at Hajigunje in the Christ- 
mas week of "57. All the horses belonged to one’s own 
father, mother, brother, sister, cousin, or friend. A row 
of temporary stables had sprung up by the side of the 
course, which Percy Dacres had got into such splendid 
order. The rising sun beheld a dozen horses having their 
gallop, watched by eager and critical observers. Fat gen- 
tlemen galloped hard in heavy blankets to bring themselves 
down to fourteen stone. Native jockeys were kept whole 
days without food or drink. Horses who had passed their 
lives in happy obscurity were now dragged into painful 
publicity. Strange and new responsibilities were thrust 
upon them; they found themselves burdened with great 
names — Eclipse and Kettledrum (to which the syces could 
get no nearer than Clips and Kittlum), Caractacus and 
Voltigeur. The air was redolent with the phraseology of 
the turf. Odds were given and taken, books made. Sleek, 
fat horses, who had hitherto only trotted in buggies and 
dog-carts, now found themselves without their flowing tails, 
and in violent training. 

Men and horses have disappeared like the grass that grew 
or the wind that blew around them; but are not their names 
embalmed in this page of the Delhi Gazette ” which I 
have preserved in memory of that happy week? Are not 
their doings chronicled here at greater length than the 
doings of the disaffected Sepoys at Umballah and Barrack- 
pore? Wondrous power of paper and ink! Here the whole 
scene lives again. Here you may read how Colonel Monk 
won the Charger Stakes on his C. A. G. Aziz, and how Mr. 
Neale won the Welter on his B. W. G. Vanderdecken, and 
how Mr. Sulivan Bird, C. S., won the Hajigunje Cup on 
his C. C. B. Cavalier; how in the hurdle race. Noon, of 
the salt department, fell into the water; and how the C. 
B, C. mare Motee, most judiciously ridden at the finish, 
won the Oaks by a nose. There you may read the little 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


119 


joke of how Beelzebub, seeking whom he might devour, or 
thinking that all flesh was grass, seized the native jockey, 
Jaffier, by the leg; how Mrs. Dyke won the ladies^ race 
with her English horse. King George. This last race 
caused the greatest excitement. It was for horses owned 
and ridden by ladies. There were four entries for it; but 
the race was known to lie between Mrs. Dykeses horse and 
Mary Keale^s Selim. Keen, almost too keen, was the riv- 
alry. The station was divided into the Dykeites and the 
Kealites. Many men of a trimming character did not know 
how to reconcile the claims of position and rank on the one 
side, and youth and beauty on the other. Dacres found 
himself in this difficulty; and Mary actually found herself 
preferring the ardent, if ludicrously demonstrative, parti- 
sanship of Dr. Sawyer to the leaning-both-ways of Dacres — 
to his They are both very good horses, and I do not know 
which will win, and I wish they could both win.^^ 

Great is the commotion in the stand as the horses go by 
in their preliminary canter. Certainly, if beauty of form 
and grace of movement alone can win a race, Selim has it. 
Now they have started. Mary strives to look as uncon- 
cerned as possible, but how fast her heart beats. Selim 
has been straining terribly at the bit; the moqjent the flag 
falls and he is^ let go he shoots forward like, an arrow from 
the bow, gets'‘‘ out of hand,^^ and is leading by a dozen 
lengths. 

‘°That is a pity,^^ says Mr. Neale, ‘‘ it will lose him the 
race.'’^ 

It does not seem so, for Selim is still leading round the 
corner and in the straight run in; but the big English 
horse’s nose is now at his quarter. Gallantly does Selim 
respond to the call made upon him by his rider; but King 
George, too, has the sturdy qualities of his race, and has by 
far the longer stride, and his nose is now at Selim’s shoul- 
der. There is a deafening clamor in the stand. 

King George wins. ” 

“ Selim wins.” 

“ King George, King George. ” 

“Selim, Selim.” 

“A dead heat.” 

No, the judge has given it in King George’s favor. 

“ You see if I need a good horse to carry me, I have got 
one,” says Mrs. Dyke to Mary, very politely. 


120 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


“ I owe you a pair of gloves/^ replies Mary to Mrs. 
Dyke, very politely. 

The record that lies before me was from the pen of 
Major Zouch, who had acted as “local correspondent/^ of 
the “ Delhi Gazette in many places and for many years. 
On the score of which, and of his series ' of letters, signed 
Badajos, on the Hepoy’s pouch belt, he was reckoned among 
the literary men of India, his style being considered very 
like that of Macaulay. 

Major Zouch was in the habit of declaring that while the 
strongest bent of his genius undoubtedly was toward gen- 
eralship, yet he was not sure that he had not in him the 
making of a great diplomatist also; and certainly his ac- 
count of this race is a very diplomatic one. 

“ It would be difficult to say,'’' he writes, “ whether the 
numerous assembly was more pleased at the victory of the 
popular lady who is at the head of society here, and who, 
in past times, was the ornament of the highest circles of 
Calcutta and Simla, or regretful of the defeat of a most 
charming young spinster recently arrived from England." 

But the great event of the week was the ball — the one 
most eagerly looked forward to by all the women and a 
great number of the men. Great were the preparations 
made for it, and of these Percy Dacres was the chief man- 
ager; but he had the help of all the ladies in the station; 
some did one thing, some another; thus Mrs. Neale under- 
took the decorations, Mrs. Dyke the preparation of the 
supper. This brought Dacres into still more constant con- 
tact and communion with the sisters, if that were possible. 
He was constantly seeking their assistance and advice. 
Every girl knows how delightful a thing is decoration, 
whether it be that of a ball-room or a church. Now he 
comes to borrow a toilet-table, now to ask if they can spare 
him a set of curtains. It is the day of the ball, and Mrs. 
Neale and her daughters and Percy Dacres are at the 
Assembly Rooms giving the finishing touches. The central 
room is a hall of grand proportions; and as it is divided 
into two parts, the main room or ball-room, and a smaller 
room at the end, divided from the other by two fine 
columns carrying handsome arches, it lends itself admir- 
ably to decorative pm-poses. This smaller room is to be 
arranged as a drawing-room, and this is their present task. 

“ I have been trying all the morning," cries Dacres, “ to 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


121 


find out where to put this sofa. I have tried it in half a 
dozen different places. It really is quite heart-breaking. 
If you put it into that corner, where the people are out of 
the draught, they can not see comfortably into the ball- 
room. If you put it across the room here the ottoman 
hides the dancers, and if you put it on this side it is in the 
way of the people coming out of the veranda. Confound 
the thing, and he gives the recalcitrant - sofa a shake. 

They hold a long and anxious consultation. They try 
the sofa in many positions. 

If we put it across this corner instead of into it, I think 
it will do,’^ said Mary. 

“ Yes, it does very well,^^ said Dacres, after moving it. 
“ It was very clever of you to think of it. Miss Neale. You 
have taken quite a load off my ndnd. Now, where shall we 
put this teapoy? Here? No; I think it will be better 
there. And this easy-chair? We must have the ottoman 
in the middle of the room, but it makes it very difficult to 
arrange the other things; it obstructs the view so. How- 
ever, patience and perseverance overcome all difficulties.’^ 

In the division of labor to Dacres and Ohloe falls the 
task of putting up the curtains, and hanging the festoons 
of leaves and flowers. They both seem to findvit agreeable. 
Toiler how /iehghtful to help him! How delightful to 
carry out his directions! How delightful to look up at him 
and give him the various things as he wants them! To him 
how delightful to watch her sweet eagerness to obey! How 
delightful to look down on the pretty, smiling face! How 
delightful to pick the tacks from off the pretty pink palm, 
or take them from between the delicate forefinger and the 
sweet little thumb! How delicious, but dangerous, the 
meeting of the finger-tips. Ah, proximity and propinquity, 
how much have ye to answer for! 

They are not to return home for luncheon, but eat it 
there, and are soon seated, a merry, laughing party, round 
the small table, on which stand the bread and butter, and 
the cold ‘‘ hunter’s beef,” and the bunch of bananas, and 
the bottle of Bass for Dacres. 

“ Mrs. Dyke said she was coming to arrange the supper- 
table,” says Mrs. Neale. 

I think I hear her carriage now,” says Dacres. 

Mrs. Dyke sails into the room. 


122 THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PEEIL. 

“ Dear me! I hope I don^t intrude. Quite a family 
party, I declare. ^ 

Dacres jumps up. Mary remarks now, as she had done 
before, how his easy friendliness with them seems to leave 
him when Mrs. Dyke appears on the scene. He seems very 
much afraid of her — very subservient in his ways to her. 

“ Oh, do not move, Mr. Dacres. Quite a family party, 
I declare. Why .have you not Doctor Sawyer here?'^ she 
adds, with a smile. 

“ Why should he be here?’^ asks Mary, in a tone of voice 
meant to be quiet, but which sounds set and hard. 

‘‘ Oh, I do not know.^^ 

‘‘ Oh, I want to tell you,^^ cries Dacres, hastily, that 
there will be seven more people here to-night. 

That will make no difference — a dozen more would not 
put Amir Ali out.^^ 

Amir Ali, it will be remembered, is Mrs. Dykes’s major- 
domo. 

“ Would your khansaman like to have the help of my 
man?” asks Mrs. Neale. 

‘‘ Oh, dear, no; not at all. To prepare supper for forty 
or fifty people is nothing to Amir Ali. He has often pre- 
pared breakfasts and suppers for three times that num- 
ber. When my first husband’s niece was married from 
our house at Simla — she married Captain, now Colonel, 
Smithers — grand-nephew of Sir Duncan Smithers — we had 
over two hundred people at the breakfast, and Amir Ali 
managed it all by himself, and the Marquis of Deal — he 
was there — said he had never sat down to a better break- 
fast, not even in England; and his nieces, the Ladies Flora 
and Ethel Paradise — they were there too — said they only 
wished they had a man as good as he at Government 
House. Pray sit down again, Mr. Dacres,” and Mrs. 
Dyke sails away into the supper-room. 


CHAPTER XYIL 

THE BALL. 

Foe days past the great desire of every man in Hajigunje 
has been to ride with the pretty sisters, be their partner at 
croquet, sit by their side at dinner; and to-night is to dance 
with them. They, the girls, are mobbed for dances the 


THE. TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


123 


moment they set foot in the Assembly Rooms. It is amusr 
ing to see the royal air with which the erst school-girl, Chloe 
Neale, dispenses her favors. Mary wears her honors much 
more meekly, and wins golden opinions by not making 
quite so much of her advantage. When at length they 
pass into the drawing-room, which they have helped to 
make look so pretty, they see seated on a sofa by herself 
aud looking very forlorn. Miss Oldham, a visitor from a 
neighboring station, and the only spinster there besides 
themselves. Miss Oldham lias undergone a strange re- 
juvenescence since she came to India; when she first came 
out and went to a large station she was looked on as an old 
maid and set down as over thirty: going thence tO a smaller 
one she was held to be under thirty, and a ‘‘ fine young 
woman;^'’ and at the very small station where she was now 
she was quite the belle of the place, and had there gained, 
that is to say, lost, five years more, and was reported to be 
not more than five-and-twenty. But now, alas! by the 
side of the genuine youthfnlness of the sisters her own ficti- 
tious youthfulness departs. It was hard. The swains who 
had hung round her a few days before now swarm around 
the sisters. She had never made herself out younger than 
she was, more beautiful than she was. Chlo^ Neale can 
not restrain a look of triumph and satisfaction as she 
glances at the ‘faded charms of the old maid, the prominent 
collar-bones, the lean arms, the skinny neck, the yellowing 
cheek, the dimming eyes, and then recalls the vision of re- 
splendent loveliness her mirror had displayed to her that 
night, the lovely white rounded shoulders, the exquisitely 
molded arms, the soft round cheek all milk and roses, the 
ivory neck, the blue eyes, sparkling and brilliant. But 
Mai-y Neale feels a sudden pang at the heart at Ihe other’s 
disadvantage, as when, looking up from your loaded table, 
you see a starving woman in the street: a sudden shame at 
her own advantage. She hurries forward and seats herself 
by Miss Oldham’s side. The whole scene has been marked 
and understood by Captain Steele, who was at that moment 
coming forward to ask Miss Oldham to dance with him, for 
she was an old acquaintance of his. This done, he turns 
to Mary and says^ Have you a dance to spare. Miss Neale? 
though, from the crowd of eager applicants I saw around 
you just now, I can hardly hope so.” 

‘‘lam afraid my card is quite full,” says Mary, looking 


124 THE TOTJCHSTOHE OF PEEIL. 

down at it with the fervent hope that she may see no vacant 
place. . 

“ Kot a single one/^ says the long-nosed captain, in a 
voice of such keen disappointment that it brings a flush to 
Mary’s cheek. 

“ Well, I see there is one vacant,” says Mary, above all 
things truthful, but it is the sixteenth, and you may not 
care to wait for that. ” 

“What is it?” 

“ A waltz. ” 

“Thank you; let me enter my name,” and Captain 
Steele seizes the bit of pasteboard with an alacrity, and 
puts his name down with an air of satisfaction, that deepens 
the flush on Mary’s cheek. 

“ What a thorough gentleman Captain Steele is,” says 
Miss Oldham as he walks away. 

Mary smiles. 

“ I see. You think I praise him because he has asked 
me to dance: But it is not that. I have known him be- 
fore. We were at the same station together. I never 
knew him to be anything but the gentleman, and that can 
not be said of all gentlemen. So-called gentlemen are often 
not such in speech and behavior, especially on an occasion 
like this. No woman would ever find Captain Steele any- 
thing else. ” 

Why does not the ball begin? Because Mrs. Dyke has 
not arrived yet. But here she comes, and the men press 
round her and her party; and now the band strikes up. 
The rooms look very pretty. On either side of the archway 
dividing the two are massed palm-branches and plantain- 
leaves with their satin sheen. Pretty curtains drape the 
numerou/door-ways. Banks of flowers rise up in every 
corner. On the walls hang festoons of leaves and flowers, 
chiefly roses. Boses in fact are everywhere, and their sweet 
fragrance fills the halls. At the head of the ball-room 
rises a military trophy, built up of arms and accouterments, 
and draped with the colors of the regiment, colors emblaz- 
oned with a grand roll of victories, from the first one at 
Plassey to the last one at Guzerat. A long row of chande- 
liers, borrowed from the young Nuwab of Hajigunje, whose 
offices were very soon to be of a much less friendly charac- 
ter, fill even those spacious chambers with light. 

Colonel Monk leads out Mrs. Neale for the opening 


THU TOUCHSTONE OP PERIL. 125 

quadrille. It is delightful to watch them. They dance it 
irf the old-fashioned manner, doing all their steps and 
keeping exact time to the music: do not lounge through it 
as do the younger people, eager for the more tumultuous 
joys of the galop and the waltz. Then comes a waltz, a 
very pretty one, and the room is soon full of joyous couples 
moving round at its behest. Some bump and jolt, but 
most go smoothly and easily round ; some rush like comets, 
carrying dismay; but most mdve like the planets in well- 
ordered and benignant courses. Dance follows dance : time 
is forgotten: joy and happiness takes its place. 

To be young and pretty; to be at one^s first ball, beauti- 
fully dressed; to be in a large and handsome ball-room, 
charmingly decorated, brilliantly lighted, with good music 
and a good floor: to be engaged for every dance: to be 
gliding over that smooth floor to the strains of an excellent 
band — -what more could the heart of a girl desire to make 
her happy than this? And yet Ohloe Neale found that 
there was something; that even that excess of joy was capa- 
ble of enhancement. It was only when she was gliding 
over that smooth floor, to the strains of that excellent 
music, on the arm of Percy Dacres that she knew that she 
had arrived at the very zenith of bliss. Mary Neale ^s feel- 
ings were like those of her sister, like with too^close a re- 
semblance. She too enjoyed the bright, gay scene around 
her: the spacious, well-lighted hall, the light, the music 
and the dancing, the gay dresses and the bright and kindly 
faces, as much as Chloe and more so, for she had a fuller, 
keener sense of enjoyment. But she too found that she 
had not reached the acme of enjoyment until, in time to 
the music, she was gliding over the smooth floor on the arm 
of Percy Dacres. Then she felt herself borne along on the 
soft waves of melody, wafted along on the wings of music; 
transported into some region above the earth, into dream- 
land, fairyland; felt as if she had entered into some new 
state of existence, had become a disembodied spirit, a mere 
feeling of joy. 

Percy Dacres certainly danced very well. But if to 
dance with Percy Dacres was heavenly, to dance with ' ‘ Bob 
Sawyer was purgatorial. If the one was rapture the other 
was torture. 

But this was but a mote in the sunbeam. She, like her 
sister, had many dances with Dacres, but only one with Dr. 


126 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


Sawyer. He had pleaded earnestly for more: three .at 
least. But Mary was obdurate. Then he had said, re- 
flectively, 

“ Perhaps you are right. It is just as well that people 
should not begin to talk too soon.^^ 

What do you mean?^^ 

‘‘ If we danced together three times they would say we 
were engaged. 

‘‘Too soon!^' cries Mary, with flashing eyes. “It is 
only that I promised my father to distribute my dances as 
much as I could, because there are 'so many more men than 
ladies. 

Then why did she givo Dacres so many? Tricksome love 
trips up conscience. 

Dance follows dance, and the hours pass by in unfelt 
flight. And now the band strikes up ‘ ‘ The Eoastjleef of 
Old England — strange tune to be blown by Hindoo' lips — 
and the joyous company is soon streaming along by the 
head of the table where stands the magnificent English 
ham — strange dish to be placed there by Moslem hands. 
And soon the champagne bottles are firing 2k 'feu dejoie, 
and the room rings with merry laughter. 

The beauty of Die arrangement of the supper-table, the 
excellence of the dishes on it, testify to the skill of Amir 
Ali; show that his mistress has not overlauded it. But 
that great man does not survey it with his usual compla- 
cency. His thoughts are far away, away in the native town 
where a great entertainment is going forward among his 
own countrymen at which he was to have been an honored 
guest, and not a waiting-man as here. 

Sulivan Bird has taken in Mary Neale. They are very 
merry together. Their laughter rings out perhaps a little 
too loud. Is it for this that Mrs. Dyke turns her large 
eyes on them? But meeting that look in full, as is her 
wont, Mary, to her surprise, sees something there beyond 
mere reproof of over-girlish laughter; something the mean- 
ing of which she does not understand until some time after- 
ward. 

Supper over, the dancing is renewed with enhanced 
vigor. Swift over the smooth floor go the flying feet. 
Pound and round, gyrating swift, the linked couples fly. 
More delightful grow the intermediate walks in the dimly 
lighted corridor of the inclosed veranda; more soft and 


THE fOUCHSTOHE OF PERIL. 12'?' 

sentimental the talk in the little bowers and alcoves ‘‘ for 
whispering lovers made. And more dangerous; as Percy 
Dacres finds. 

They are together in a little alcove, and Chloe Neale is 
leaning back in a long lounge-chair, her wdiite arms lying 
along its arms. How lovely she looks, thinks Dacres, who 
is seated on a lower chair by her side, his eyes fixed upon 
her face; though her eyes are averted, the shifting, varying 
color of her cheek shows that she feels his glance. Dacres 
understands the meaning of the averted look, but he does 
not know how the little heart is fluttering like a bird / 
caught in the hand. It is one of those moments of de- 
licious, unspoken fellow-feeling, when a common atmos- 
phere holds the two, and shuts them out from the rest of 
the world. It was one of those moments which are as criti- 
cal as delicious. They are dangerous moments if you have 
not made up your mind, for the waves of impulse may 
carry you further than you wish or want. They are mo- 
ments in which it is well if the feelings of the heart are be- 
yond the utterance of the voice, otherwise the utterances of 
the voice are apt to be beyond the feelings of the heart. 
Well if at such a moment the whole soul does look through 
the eyes and speak with the lips, for you can hardly help 
assuming the looks and accents of love. AVell if you are 
the ardent lover, for you can hardly help playing the part 
of one. ■ (You' can not look at a pretty girl as you do at 
Smith, speak to her as you do to Jones.) WYll if it is a 
supreme moment for both, and not for one only. It was 
so for Ohloe. She was off her feet and in the deep water. 
She had never been in such a situation before. Dacres had 
— often. He had passed many seasons at the hill-stations, 
where love-making, and its poor simulacrum, flirting, are 
the favorite pastime. He hud played the game often. His 
capacity for real feeling had, of course, been dulled there- ^ 
by: a hypocrite can not be a zealot. He was, therefore, 
merely dabbling in the shallows by the margin of the 
stream. He had not made up his mind for the plunge into 
it. But it is a dangerous river — subject to sudden floods. 
One of these arose now and carried him away. How dis- 
tractingly pretty Chloe looks. How lovely the bare arm 
looks, how beautiful is the small » white hand. And they 
are so near. And so he seizes the small hand in his own, 
and it is not snatched away, and he carries it to his lips and 


X, 


128 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


imprints a burning kiss upon it. Chloe feels as if she were 
about to swoon, but she is recovered from it, aS if by the 
actual touch of cold water, by the chilly tones of Dacres^s 
voice as he stands up and says : 

“ I must go and look for your sister; I am engaged to 
her for the next dance, and would not miss any part of it 
for the world.'’’ 

In another alcove or bower not far off — and these little 
nooks which hold but two are in great request the whole 
night through — sits Mary Neale with Dr. Sawyer by her 
side. She has forgiven him that speech of his; what would 
she not forgive after those dances with Percy Dacres which 
put her at peace with all mankind? She would rather not 
have come into this alcove with Dr. Sawyer, but she 
thought it better than walking up and down the open ver- 
anda with him, where his absurd and ponderous attentions 
attracted the notice of all. And her keen sense of the 
ludicrous made those attentions, so distressing to her in 
public, amusing to her in private. This broad, open, 
patent, blatant courtship was especially comical to herself, 
for she contrasted it with her own preconceived ideas of a 
courtship; the veiled approach, the shy advances, the deli- 
cate attentions, th^ quiet, silent service. And the repose 
of the easy-chair, of the darkness and coolness and silence, 
is very delightful. But soon she begins to think that re- 
pose will be broken, that Dr. Sawyer ^s amusing, annoying 
attentions are coming to the troublesome climax of a pro- 
posal. His big eyes are fixed upon her face; he bends 
forward; he coughs; she thinks significantly. She keeps 
very still, her eyes fixed on the Chinese lantern, dimly 
burning overhead. 

‘‘ Ahem!” 

Pit-a-pat goes her heart. A proposal of marriage, the 
first proposal, can not but be exciting, however ludicrously 
conducted. What will he say? He coughs again. 

‘‘lam afraid I have caught a cold,” says Dr. Sawyer. 
“ Do you not feel the draudit here. Miss Neale?” 

“ No.” 

“ That is one of the drawbacks to a ball. You get heat- 
ed with dancing, and then sit or stand in a draught and 
catch cold.” 

“lam not subject to colds,” says Mary. 

“ I should have thought not, you look so strong and 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEt^IL. 


129 


healthy,^^^ says Dr. Sawyer, in a tone of supreme satisfac- 
tion. Health an^ strength are great things in a woman; 
the first things to be considered, I hold, in the choice of a 
wife; more especially in India, where if she gets ill she has 
to be sent away to the hills or to England.'*' 

Mary is silent. 

Think how disagreeable it must be for a man to have 
to keep his wife in England, while he himself has to live in 
India." 

I can not quite enter into the situation." 

‘‘ Of course not, being ‘a. woman," says Dr. Sawyer, sol- 
emnly. “ But think of the expense of it — the having to 
keep up two establishments. It is said that what is enough 
for one is enough for two, but the two must be together — 
not apart. ^ A man burdens himself with the cares and re- 
sponsibilities of married life and has noiie of its pleasures 
and enjoyments — its advantages; has no one to keep house 
for him; knows he is married only by reason of the month- 
ly remittances. Think how disagreeable it would be if the 
husband had to live at Hajigunje while the wife was living 
at Brighton. " 

“Very likely— /or him,'' said Mary. 

“Precisely so!" said Dr. Sawye/ emphatically, “ and 
therefore — " ^ 

But what he was going to say was added to the enormous 
mass of things that have never been said. 

“ Where is Miss I^eale? Has any one seen Miss Kealer 
Do you know where she is, Mrs. Dyke?" asks, in very ex- 
cited tones, a youth, standing at the very door of the 
alcove. 

“ She is in there — with Dr. Sawyer," says Mrs. Dyke, 
significantly. 

Captain Steele stayed on for that sixteenth dance, and 
Mary found dancing with him not half so bad as she ex- 
pected. Of course his dancing did not approach tlie per- 
fection of the dancing of Dacres; but neither did it the ex- 
ecrableness of the dancing of Sawyer; if it was not rapturous 
it was not torturing. He danced rather stiffly, but with a 
firm, sure guidance and in excellent time. Then she found 
the after-dance talk with him more agreeable than had been 
that of most of her partners; he paid her the high compli- 
ment of always tallnng sense to her. And she had also 
occasion to find that what Miss Oldham had said about 

5 


130 THiJ TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

Captaia Sfceele was true. She had excused it on tho score 
of his youth and high spirits, but she had been much dis- 
tressed by the way Dacres had hustled and pulled Miss Old- 
ham about in the dance he had felt compelled to dance with 
her. Captain Steele was as attentive and polite to Miss 
Oldham as the others took care to be to Mrs. Dyke. , This 
was a part of that uniform courtesy which she had observed 
him always display toward women, part of that behavior 
which in a better-looking man she would have called chiv- 
alrous. And among the crowd of men to-night she- had 
been once more struck with a certain air of distinction there 
was about the long-nosed captain, notwithstanding his plain 
face and awkward figure, because of ' a certain distinctive 
-ease and quiet in his manner, because of a certain high- 
bred look. 

. One more of Mary Neale’s experiences of that night we 
have to dwell on. It had occurred early in the evening. 
She was crossing the ball-room with her father, when they 
passed close by a group of natives standing in one of the 
doorways. Attracted by the rich dress of the foremost man' 
among them,-Mary turns her eyes toward him, and encoun- 
ters from him a look which fills her with fear and loathing. 

Who is that small man in the very rich dress, ” she 
asks when they have passed by. 

“The Nuwab of Hajigunje,” says Mr. Neale, shortly. 
He, too, has partly caught the look. “ A drunkenj disso- 
lute young scoundrel. He should not have been asked 
here. Natives have very different ideas about a. ball, about 
the appearance of women in public, to what we have.” 

The eastern sky is brightening fast; the eastern star be- 
ginning to fade “ in the light of a daffodil sky;” Hacres 
shouts for Mr. Neale’s carriage; the sleepy grooms bring 
up the sleepy horses. Mrs. Neale i^ very tired: Mr. Neale 
is somewhat cross; Mary Neale is pleased and happy; Chloe 
Neale in the seventh heaven of delight. The Hajigunje 
ball, to so many the last ball of their lives, is over. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

PIG-STICKING. 

The day after he has “ proposed ” and been “ accepted 
must surely be one of the happiest in a man’s life. By no 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL, 131 

means. It is often one of the most miserable. The die 
has been cast, the Kubicon crossed. Now for the conse- 
quences. The ideal has now to be turned into the real, a 
process in which it too often suffers dissolution. The 
nightmare from which a friend of ours suffers most is that 
of being engaged to be married. Being accepted in mar- 
riage has caused high dignitaries of the Church to flee, 
away into the mountains (of Wales); has driven some men 
to the antipodes. 

Percy Dacres had not gone so far as this. But it was 
with no feeling of joy that he recalled one of the incidents 
of the ball the morning after. It is a very common mis- 
take that only your quiet, silent man is careful of his own 
interests; that your boisterous, jovial fellow is utterly re- 
gardless of them : our own experience is the other w’ay. 
We talk of “ careless joviality but there is no need tliat 
the two should always go together. They did not do so in 
the case of Percy Dacres. He did not live only for to-day 
any more than Sawyer; took quite as much anxious thought 
for the morrow. He had planned out his life as carefully; 
had bestowed quite as* much reflection on the important 
subject of matrimony. He meant to ma.rry well, putting 
his own interpretation on the latter word. It^did not do 
to marry too early, and have your house full of squalling 
children, and give up your good dinner at the mess, and 
not; be able to afford yourself a decent cigar, or a good glass 
of wine. It was better not to marry in India, where the 
girls so seldom had any money. The best thing, therefore, 
was to wait until your furlough was due, and then go home 
and have a good fling in London, and then look out for a 
Manchester or Birmingham girl, with lots of money. This 
was the course he had marked out for himself. If you did 
marry out in India it was best to, . marry the daughter of 
some influential olfficial who could get you a good post, get 
you an appointment that would keep you all , your, service 
in the hills instead of sweating in the plains like the other 
fellows. This the Neales could not do for him. Chloe 
Neale was a very pretty girl, but there were plenty of 
pretty girls in England too. He had already begun to 
think, to use his. own expressions, that he was “ making 
the running too hard,^'’ and he meant when the Christmas 
week was over ‘^to put the drag on.^*’ What confounded 
chance had brought a pretty girPs pretty hand right under 


132 


■ THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

a fellow^ s noser AVhy were these young girls so suscepti- 
ble?. What was to be done now? He had parted before 
now even after the meeting of the lips; he had kissed and 
ridden away. Were his furlough only due! But he uiust 
remain where he was for the present. It was awkward — 
troublesome. He cogitated. He could not break off with 
the Neales at once. W^hy not transfer his attentions to 
the other sister? The family could not resent this. He 
could only be blamed for not being able to decide between 
the two. How could Chloe herself resent this? He would 
carry his attentions to Mary not quite so far — back out 
gradually. He got up with a load off liis mind, and drank 
his brandy-and-soda with an additional gusto. 

Chloe Neale rose with very different feelings; before her 
floated soft visions of delight; if her retrospections were 
delightful her anticipations were still more so. 

On this day after the ball was to come off the pig-sticking 
match between the Hajigunje folk and their visitors, with 
which was to be combined a picnic, so as to use up the re- 
mains of the supper, you know. The contest was looked 
forward to with very keen interest. ‘ The sport is a favorite, 
one. There was danger. And the champions on either 
side were men of renown: tough men; no laggards; straight 
riders; quick of eye, stout of heart, steady of hand. Colo- 
nel Monk and Mr. Neale are the champions chosen for 
Hajigunje. But this morning at brealdast Mrs. Neale 


Oh, John, you must not ride in this match. 1 can 
not bear the thought of your doing so. 

‘‘ Why not?’^ 

“You will try and win the match. 

“Certainly.’’^ 

“ And ride very hard.’’^ 

“ Of course. 

“ Oh, John, should anything happen to you. 

“ How can I refuse to ride? How can I withdraw now?^^ 

“ When we are all so happy and comfortable together, 
and the girls need your assistance and advice;’^ and Mrs. 
Neale puts her handkerchief to her eyes. 

“ Whatd d nonsense it is!'’^ bursts out Mr. Neale, all 

the more furiously because he knows that his chance of rid- 
ing is now over. The woman \s tear is the most powerful in- 
strument of compulsion that ever was invented. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 133 

—dear — John/^ begins Mrs. Neale, 

says Mr. Neale, bitterly. Know 
words of the Lord^s Prayer, or the 
‘ Polly, Polly,’’ of our parrot. You are about to mention 
that somebody was at some time or another killed some- 
where when out pig-stioking — ” 

‘‘ Yes — Mr. Smith."” 

“Exactly — Mr. Smith, and Mr. Neale jumps up and 

- paces furiously up and down the room. “ D d idiotic 

nonsense,” he mutters. 

The girls look shocked and horrified. His former out- 
breaks of temper have not been so bad as this. Their com- 
ing has exercised a restraining and softening infiuence. 
Ohloe looks as if she should like to run away. Mary’s face 
expresses anger and reproof as well as sorrow and distress. 
To her all this is very terrible. She is distressed and angry 
on account of her mother; distressed on account of her 
father; she loves and admires him; why should there be 
any flaw in his character? Her mother may be weak and 
foolish, but why should hd be harsh and rude? Is he not 
a man? These flaws in the perfect circle of home-love are 
very grievous to her. Mr. Neale- sees the look on Mary’s 
face; he has a great regard for her good opinibn; he con- 
trols himself, and says, in a softened and apologetic tone 
of voice, 

“ I was anxious to ride because I was chosen, and be- 
cause without me ours will be the weaker side. Hacres will 
have to take my place, and though quite as good a man in 
every respect, he is much heavier than I am, and both the 
men on the other side are light-weights; but if it distresses 
you so of course I will not ride. 1 do not care so much 
about it on my own account. No one is likely to accuse 
me of funk.” 

Was this change of programme a source of unmixed sat- 
isfaction to Ohloe Neater 

The picnic was to be held in a huge mango grove, situat- 
ed not far from the river valley in which the chase of the 
wild boar was to take place. In the heart of the grove are 
dark and solemn glades, such as the ancient Druids would 
•have loved, gloomy bowers fitted for human sacrifice; nor 
had that ancient and widespread rite been wanting here. 
But the feast is now spread in one of the more light and 


“ Oh — you — know- 
slightly sobbing. 

“ Oh, yes, I know, 
it as well as I do the 


,134 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

brightsome outer alleys from which they look out on the 
ever- repeated scene, the plain interminably spread, with its 

f roves and fields and hamlets, now so bright and cheerful, 
ecause of the milder sunshine, because of the green grass, 
because of the widfe emerald stretches of the rising wheat, 
across which the strips of mustard run in golden bands; 
w:)men are moving about in bright-colored garments, the 
water flashes above the wells; there is the always-heard 
keen cry of the kites falling from unseen heights; from the 
depths of the grove comes the soft cooing of doves; along 
its edges the peacocks strut and expand their glittering 
tails. 

Across the fields and plains come the gathering guests. 
It is a picturesque sight. Some come on elephants, some 
on camels, some on horseback: one old lady comes in a 
** tonjon,^^ a sedan-chair, such a one as Warren Hastings 
fode in when he went out to exchange shots with Philip 
Francis. Mary Neale and her father have ridden out. 
As Mrs. Neale and Chloe drive up in their carriage 
Hacres comes forward to help them out. How Chloe 
Neale^s heart beats; how her hands tremble; how painfully 
the blood rises up into her cheek. She keeps her eyes cast 
down, reluctant to encounter that eager, meaning look 
which yet she so longs to see. Having to take his extended 
hand she slowly raises her eyes to his and is met by a look 
of quiet indifierence. He has not looked at her with such 
indifference from the very first moment they met. Her 
heart contracts with a sudden spasms He has just taken 
her hand and let it drop; he has held it far longer every 
other time it has been within his own. Where was the 
tender pressure of last night.^^ She feels a sudden tighten- 
ing of the throat. 

But now the eager young men come fiocking around her, 
asking her how she is after the fatigues of the ball, and she 
has no time for further thinking. But joyful a meal as the 
luncheon is to all the others, it is a very doleful one for 
her. It is for Mary to sit on, that Dacres places the in- 
verted wine-case: by her side that he throws himself on the 
ground, her that he helps to chicken and ham. And when 
they begin to move off to the ground which is to be the 
scene of the contest, fresh trials are in store for Chloe. 
Mary is to view the sport from horseback. Chloe had 
begged hard to be allowed to do so too, but Mr. Neale had 


THE TOUCH STOliTE OF PEEIL. 135 

peremptorily forbade it. She does not ride well enough; 
It would not be safe for her. She has to join the laSos 
who are going on elephants. And now from the bad emi- 
nence of the huge beast^s back she has to witness Dacres 
rendering to Mary ail that help in the mounting of her 
horse which has lately been her own sole possession: has to 
view tliem riding along gayly together. 

As there is a chance of some general sport after the 
matches, most of the men have come armed with speats. 

“ Don Quixote and Sancho Panza,^^ cries Mary, who is 
in very high spirits, as she beholds Major Zouch pacing 
along, spear in hand, on his tall, gaunt steed, name^ of 
him Salamanca, while by his side rides the square-bodied 
Sawyer, on his ass-like pony. 

Dacres is not the only one who rides by Mary’s side': 
Bird disputes her company with him; and for a time they 
are joined by Captain Steele. Across their line of move- 
ment runs a mound and ditch. 

“ Let us jump it,” cries Dacres, putting his horse to the 
gallop. 

It is a bigger jump than any Mary has yet attempted. 
Her heart beats fast as she feels Selim bounding along be- 
neath her; beats fast from excitement and from fear— fear 
not for herself, but only lest Selim may refuse to take it. 
The four riders come on in a line: they are over, all but 
the long-nosed captain. Looking back, the others see that 
he is riding round by the end of the obstacle. 

I suppose Captain Steele’s horse would not jump it,” 
says Mary. 

“ I do not think Steele himself came at it with much of 
a will,” says Dacres. ‘‘ I think I saw him take a pull at 
the horse’s head. You came over beautifully.” 

‘‘ Beautifully,” adds Sulivan Bird, enthusiastically. 

‘‘Yes, Selim jumped it very nicely,” says Mary, bend- 
ing down and patting the noble neck of the gallant little 
horse fondly. 

Captain Steele now rejoins them. 

“We have been waiting for you,” says Mary, sarcastic- 
ally. 

“I had to come round.” 

“ So we saw.” 

A tinge of red rises into the long-nosed captain’s thia 
brown cheeks. 


136 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


“ He wants more feeding to give him jumping power/' 
says Hacres, looking toward the very prominent ribs of 
Steele's horse. 

‘‘ He is so old that nothing would get him into good con- 
dition/' interposes Steele, glancing toward Mary. 

‘‘ But you came at the mound as if you meant to take 
it." 

■ “ So I did when we started." 

But you did not like the look of it when you got near/' 
says Hacres, laughing. ‘‘I thought I saw you tighten 
rein.*" 

‘‘I pulled up when I saw the size of the jump/' said 
Steele, quietly. “ I thought it too big a jump for the old 
horse. I have never thought it fair to take a horse at a 
jump you thought too big for him." 

‘‘ I did not know that Selim could come over," cries 
Mary, with not unpardonable pride. 

“ A very convenient theory," says Hacres. “ It enables 
you to take only the small jumps and avoid the big ones." 

They have reached the spot where the hunters and the 
beaters have been awaiting their coming for some time. 

The first match is between Colonel Monk and one of the 
visitors named Filgrave, the “ civil surgeon " of a neigh- 
boring station. The due dispositions having been made, 
the beaters march into a small dry marsh full of tall grass 
and reeds. The cast is a very successful one. Out dashes 
a fine largo boar and darts away with headlong speed; after 
him rush the two eager horsemen. Straight runs the pig 
and straight ride the horsemen — now through the broad 
ditch he, over it they; now through the thin hedge he, over 
it they; now into the belt of tamarisk all together, and the 
old grunter reaches it just in the nick of time, for Fil- 
grave's deadly spear was close impending over his back. 
The boar gets through the tangled tamarisk quicker than 
the horses can, and he is a good way across the sandy plain 
beyond before the riders emerge upon it. And now there 
ensues a very pretty race between the horsemen across this 
bit of flat. They have come up to the boar, when a huge 
field from which the maize has been cut, again gives piggy 
the advantage: for the roots stand up like sharpened stakes 
and the horses can go but slowly through them. The 
broken ground beyond, with its holes and fissures, is also in 


THE TOUCHSTONE OE PERIL. 137 

the, boards favor, ride the riders never so boldly. But now 
comes a fine level bit of turf and the spearsrnen press for- 
ward to their advantage: Filgraveis ahead, and it seems as 
if he is about to draw the first blood, which will win him 
the match, when the boar jinks and the redoubtable doc- 
tor, unable to stop his horse, is carried beyond him, and 
Colonel Monk has then the boar to himself; two hundred 
yards more and the opportunity will not have passed un- 
improved, when a sandridge covered with grass as high as 
the horses, saves the boar. The ground beyond is again 
open, and the boar, jinking from before Colonel Monk, 
passes in front of Filgrave's horse; Filgrave digs in the 
spurs, but his horse puts his foot in a hole, stumbles, and 
deposits his rider right in front of the boar. Though half- 
stunned the doctor does not forget the rule, When on the 
ground before a boar, turn on your face, and lucky for 
him he remembers it, for he receives a gash across the 
loins which would otherwise have been across the stomach, 
and would have performed the hari-kari upon liim 
most effectually. The boar, who has huge tusks, now 
turns his big head, preparing for another and more deadly 
stroke —well was it for the tender-hearted Mrs. Neale that 
she was not- there to witness the sight — when old Peter 
Monk, still quick of eye and ffrm of hand, comes thunder- 
ing by, and as he passes delivers the boar a thrust that lays 
him dead on the ground, close by the side of the supine 
doctor. And so Hajigunje wins the first match. 

As Dacres is moving off to take part in the second, he 
says to Mary: 

You know when the knights of old went down into the 
lists they were given a flower — a rose. Will you give me 
that one you have onr'’^ 

Mary takes the flower from her bosom with a blush, and 
Dacres fixes it carefully in his button- hole. It is not with 
feelings of satisfaction that either CUiloe Neale or Captain 
Steele view the action. Dacres rides very pluckily and 
well, but, as Neale had predicted^ his weight tells against 
him: his adversary, Mr. Davat Cullum of the civil service, 
is not only a master of the craft, but a lighter man and 
better mounted, and so this match ends in rather an easy 
win for the visitors. 

Great is the excitement now. It is the deciding match. 
The opponents are both men of wide renown in the sport; 


138 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

equally matched in skill; both splendidly horsed; if Peter 
Monk is the older man he has had more experience. Given 
a good boar, and that chance does not bring him too soon 
under, either of the deadly spears, the spectators know they 
will see a gopd bit of sport. And they are not disappointed. 
The boar is a mighty one. He comes out with an angry 
grunt, and after making a feint of charging his foes at 
once, dashes away with greyhound speed. Splendid now is 
the riding of the representatives of the two services in In- 
dia; of the man of the pen and the man of the sword. 
That was a fine leap over the yawning nullah; that was a 
grand jump over the grass-crowned ridge. Hard, very 
hard, is the riding, notwithstanding the very dangerous 
character of the ground, full as it is of cracks and holesr 
Now Monk has the boar, now Oullum: but the old boar is 
as wary as vigorous; time after time is the spear point close 
behind him, close over him, and time after time does he 
escape from it by a clever stop or jink. And now the two 
riders are straining every nerve, for the boar is nearing- a 
huge swamp which if he enters they must lose him. He 
has almost reached it when something comes into his big 
head: he stops, turns round, and charges straight at Qolo- 
nel Monk^s horse. The horse, experienced in the work, 
stands dead still with fore-legs out; Monk, experienced in 
the work> holds out the spear, and the boar rushes on to his 
death. The victory is to Hajigunje. 

It is found that there is no lime for the general sport, 
and arrangements are made for the return home. Many 
of the riders are to go back on the elephants, among them 
Mary and Dacres. There is now a vacant seat by Chloe^s 
side, and she is in hopes that Dacres may take it. But 
after helping Mary on to another elephant, he clambers up 
after her and squeezes himself in by her side, though there 
is scarcely room for him. Poor Chloe Neale! The day 
that she had expected to be so splendidly bright and radi- 
ant and joyful a one has proved dark and gloomy and mis- 
erable. She has plucked' nettles instead of flowers. Where 
she had expected to sip nectar slie had tasted of wormwood. 
When the sisters reach home and walk into the brightly 
lighted drawing-room, Mrs. Neale, who had returned from 
the grove, looking at Chloe, cries out, 

“ Why, what is the matter with you, child? How white 
you are — and when she goes up to her, poor Chloe _sud- 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 13^ 

denly lays her head down on her mother’s shoulder and be- 
gins to weep. 

“ Why, what is the matter, child? What is the matter?^' 
asks Mrs. Neale, in troubled accents, for sometime in vain, 
as she soothes and fondles her. 

“ The motion of that horrid elephant has made me feel 
quite ill,^^ at length murmurs Oliloe. “ I want to go to 
bed, mother — I do not want any dinner. 

“ Have some dinner, my child. A little hot soup will 
do you good.^^ 

‘‘ No, no, no,^^ cries Chloe, fretfully. “ Let me go to 
bed, dear mother, l«t me go to bed.'^ 

‘‘ Very well, my darling. I will see you into bed, and 
then you must have a cup of tea.'’^ 

When Mary takes in the tea, some short time afterward, 
she finds Chloe lying with her face to the wall. 

“ Here is a cup of tea, Chloe— what is really the matter 
with you, dear?’^ 

“ Ho not speak to me, please,^^ cries Chloe, in a short, 
querulous tone. “ Put down the tea and leave me. I only 
want to be alone; quite alone. 

Mary hesitated for a moment, then puts down the cup 
and steals silently out of the room. 

When Mary came into the room to go to bed herself, 
Chloe^s soft, regular breathing told her that she was fast 
asleep. She herself fell asleep that night with a strange, 
confused, confusing admixture of thoughts and feelings. 
How very close together she and Hacres had sat on the ele- 
phant. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A REDUCED MOHAMMEDAN GENTLEMAN. 

It is a market-day in Hajigunje. The main street and 
principal square of the little town are crowded. The itin- 
erant venders have spread out their little carpets. The 
country-folk sit by the side of their bundles of wood or 
grass or sugar-cane, their big baskets of vegetables. The 
country bumpkin sits down in the open air at the feet of 
the barber, who shaves the crown of his head for him. The 
village lass sits down before the working silversmith and 
Jias ornaments fitted on to her wrists and fingers and toes. 


140 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

Brightly gleams the brazier^s shop, with its vessels of every 
size, from the huge caldron to the tiny cup used by the 
Brahmin in his worship; with its pots and platters, such as 
now form the favorite ornament of London drawing-rooms. 
Kabobs hiss before charcoal fires, for the Moslem; cakes 
fizz in caldrons of boiling oil for the Hindoo. The money- 
changer sits cross-legged behind his heaps of copper coins 
and shells; the dealer in cloth behind his bales of rude 
chintzes, imprinted with patterns thousands of years old. 
Conical heaps of tobacco, tinsel-spangled, adorn the front 
of the tobacconist^s shop. The ear-cleaners ply their art. 
The butchers^ shops, with their lean joints, chiefly of goat, 
and their swarms of flies, present no pretty picture. The 
grain-dealers squat on their hams, weighing out corn with 
great leather scales, while in the street without lie great 
heaps of grain, at which the sparrows are picking away, 
and from which the sauntering sacred bull takes a leisurely 
mouthful, and the monkeys seize furtive handfuls. (Why 
are monkeys always frightened and furtive? How can it 
be said that the human race has any relationship with 
them?) The water-carriers move about with their goat- 
skin bags across their loins, and tinkle the little brass cups 
they carry, and cry ‘‘ Water for the thirsty, water 
These tall men who swagger through the crowd and bully 
the shop-keepers, and ogle the women, are Sepoys. In the 
air and bearing of these men you may see one main cause 
of the impending mutiny. The Bengal Sepoy was puffed up 
with an idea of his own power and importance. The mili- 
tary and the sacerdotal are two of the strongest forms of 
caste pride known, and these, men combined the two; they 
Wftre Brahmins as well as Sepoys. . A mercenary army is 
apt to overvalue its services, and be ready to turn its arms 
against its employers. 

All is noise and bustle here; this lessens when we pass 
into an adjoining street, almost ceases altogether in this 
other small side street; while this huge court-yard is a sea 
of silence. Its great size, the extensiveness and beauty of 
the buildings that surround it, the lovely balconies with 
their bold and nobly carved brackets, and exquisitely 
pierced stone panels, indicate the dwelling-place of people 
of wealth and rank. But over court-yard and buildings 
hangs an air of chill neglect and gloom. The melancholy 
stillness is only added to by the sad rustHng of a solitary 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF FERIL. 141 

palm-tree. In one of the corners of the courtyard remotest 
from the gateway, before a little cooking-place built in the 
open air, sit a man and a boy. The dress and look of the' 
latter, a scullion, engaged in scouring out a brass j)ot, 
proclaim the scamp; his pyjamas are of the loosest; on the 
top of a great shock of greasy hair rests a tinsel-covered 
skull-cap. He has a broad turned-up nose, a huge mouth 
in which gleam a row of broad, white teeth, a long pointed 
chin with a short goat^s beard at the end of it. As he 
thrusts his hand filled with clay into the broad-bottomed 
pot he sings some doggerel verses such as are so common 
in India. They were composed at the time when the name 
of Tippoo Sultan was a terror in the land, and people took 
revenge for their fears by depreciatory couplets. 

“ ‘ Ho! Tippoo Sultan, hear, 

With thy long and ugly ear: 

Thy father a chanter queer, 

Thy mother a vivandiere,’ ” 

he sings softly. 

The man was a truculent-looking fellow with a great 
bushy beard divided in the center and tied back by a scarf ^ 
or handkerchief, passing under the chin and knotted on the 
top of the head over his loose rough turban. He lay on his 
side conducting entomological researches amid his clothing. 

The lad now sings some doggerel lines supposed to be 
addressed by a woman to her Sepoy lover. 

“ ‘ Forward goes the company — 

Behind does the captain lag — 

Step forth gayly, O my love. 

Under the company’s flag.’ ” 

‘‘ They are great fighters, the Sepoys,'^ said the bearded 
man; “ they have conquered the whole of Hindoostan for 
these English . 

“ More fools they not to conquer it for themselves. But 
it is the same with all of us. Ek pykae, doosra kliae,” 
(One cooks, another eats.) 

“ Talking of cooking and eating, said the other, “ when 
are you going to cook and we to eat to-day? Or is it to be 
a case of stale cakes again ?"' 

* The word denoted by a dash bore a reference to the cities of the 
plain. 


142 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


‘‘I do not know. Ahmed has gone to sOe what there is 
in the store-room. Not much^ I expect. 

Only this/^ said Ahmed, the cook, coming up from 
beliind; “ not enough to give a meal to the whole zenana. 

Well, I for one am getting tired of stale chupatees and 
half meals,^’ said the bushy-bearded mao; if it were not 
that I have been with the family all my life'^ — he really 
Was a relation, an illegitimate one — “ I think I should go 
away. . 

‘‘ One can not remain long in a place where one gets 
hothing to eat, said the scullion boy. Be nan, jawe 
jan. (Without bread, we are dead.) And there is that 
other saying, too: ‘ Jxib tulk ghost, tub tulk dost.’ ” (While 
you have meat; our friendship’s complete.) 

“ Just so,” said the bearded soldier or armed retainer, 
“ one goes into service to fill one’s belly. If I can not do 
that there, I must carry my sword and shield elsewhere. 
A^ou know the proverb, /isH deg, ooski teg.” (Whose the 
pot, his the sword.) , , . 

At this, moment the old serving-maid put her head put of 
one of the windows in the upper sto;*y, and called out, in a 
^ sharp, shrill voice: ,, ,, , 

“ When are you going to send the midday meal up here? 
JVty naistress is, very hungry; the , children are vpry hungry.” 

. “It is not cooked yet,” said Ahmed. 

“ Why not?” , . , 

“ Because I have nothing to cook it with. I have flour 
enough only to provide a meal for the apartment of the 
Tara-Beebee. ” 

The Tara-Beebee was the youngest, the latest married 
and favorite wife of the master of the household. 

“And is my mistress to starve? And are , her children 
to starve?’’ cries the old woman, who belongs to the estab- 
lishment of the oldest, the senior wife. 

A window which had been partially opened before is now 
opened a little more, and a thin, cracked voice calls out 
through it: 

“ And is no one to take, thought of me? Me, the widow 
of the eldest brother. ” , 

“ Yes, my good Ahmed, bring those cakes up as soon as 
you can; my mistress is waiting for them,” says a plump, 
good-looking young woman, as she leans over one of the 
balconies. She is the maid-servant of the favorite wife. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 143 

And what is my mistress to do? Is she to starve? 
Are her'childi’en to starve ?^^ screams the old serving-maid 
from her windhw. ' ' , ’ ‘ 

And the old lady who Has proclaimed h6Tself the widow 
of the elder brother/sc teams out from behind h,ef win- 
dow ; ' ' ' ’ ' — ■ ■ ' . , ■ i ( ■ 

And what am I to eat? Am I to live bn air? Am i 
to fill my belly with wind?^'’ 

We will, get you some parched grain/^ says Ahmed., 

I eat parbhbd grain! I, the widow of the elder broth- 
er! You would not have dared to say that four years agbi 
Ahmbd Khan."'’ | 

“ I should not iiideed/^ say^, Ahmed, below his breath. ' ' 
It is evident that the building is not quite tenaiitless. 
But the tenants are but few fbr its size. There are but 
three wives now in the long line of zenana apartments which 
have sometimes held ten and more, the wives of different 
brothers, and as many coHcubines. ’ The present master of 
the mansion has but half the number of wives he might 
have, and has had. Where is now the eunuch guard? 
Where are now the host of handmaidens, bond and free? 

The deep silence of the court-yard now gives way to din 
and clamor. Complaints, reproaches, taunts, replies, re- 
joinders, fly from window to window. The old serving- 
maid shrieks at the top of her cracked voice, the young one 
shows, that she has a sharp tongue within her plump 
cheeks, the old *lady, who can not show her face as they 
can, sends forth her fire from behind her shutters. ; , 

The clamor ceases for a monaent as the voice of a man, 
who has stepped on to one of the balconies, is heard exj 
claiming: “ W'hat is the meaning of this? Why this. scold: 
ing and screaming? Is this a bazaar? Is tliis the opeii 
street?^^ but then recommences with redoubled force, for 
the corpplaints and taunts are now shouted across the 
court-yard. , 

‘‘ silencer^ commands the man, in a tone of voice tLaj: 
secures it. 

What is the meaning of all this, Ahmed ?'^ 

‘‘ The meaning of it is that I am able to supply a cooked 
meal only to one apartment. ” , 

“ And none to us/^ growls the big-bearded man. 
“Whynot?^’ \ ' ^ 'i 

‘‘ Because I have no flour. ' , 


144 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


“ Why did you not go out and get some? The house, of 
Gokul the grain-dealer is in the next street only. 

I did so; but could not get any.-’^ 

Surely thou liest. He could not be out of flour. 

Why should I lie? A\^hat would it profit me to lie? I 
did go, and could not get any. 

‘‘ Why not?^^ 

“Because,"’’ said Ahmed, gradually leading up to the 
point — like most servants, there was something not dis- 
pleasing to him in the annoyance of his master — “ because 
he would not let me have any. There was flour enough 
there. But he would not let me have any. ” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because he says you owe him' so much money that he 
can not afford to give anything on credit any more. ” 

“ The insolent, ungrateful scoundrel. Have we not dealt 
with him for years? Have we not paid him thousands of 
rupees?” 

“Yesterday’s rupees look very small,” mutters the 
scullion. “ It is only to-day’s rupees that are full size.” 

“ And have you no money at all in hand?” 

“Ho.” 

The master of the house retires for a few moments, and 
then coming back says: 

“ Take this paper to the palace of the Huwab Asufud- 
dowlah, you will get some money there. ' Make your pur- 
chases on your way back. ” 

When he re-enters his own room he remains standing, 
buried in thought. His figure is tall and elegant, his face 
very handsome; but figure and face both look shrunken, 
their grace and beauty dimmed and wasted. It is one of 
those passion-laden, passion-torn faces you often see in the 
East; but there is nothing low or mean or sensuofts about 
it; there is in it a look of high refinement; the large, 
liquid eyes lie like pools of jet beneath a prominent rock- 
like brow. He may have tried to drain too deep the cup 
of knowledge or of pleasure. He has feasted or fasted 
overmuch. It may be the latter, for he wears the green 
garb of a religious devotee, and carries in his hand a rosary 
of which he is busy telling the beads. He has perhaps 
burned the midnight oil overmuch, passed overlong vigils, 
not with living companions, but with dead ones. All 


THE TOUCHSTOifE OF PEKIL. 


145 


three. He has been and is an ardent student; he has been 
a roue and a rake; he is now an ascetic and a zealot, a bigot. 

Roti se nmhtaj!” (In want of bread!) he matters, as 
he seats himself on a dais which fills up one end of the 
room. 

Zulfikar Ali Khan belonged to a now reduced, but once 
wealthy and powerful Mohammedan family. Its history 
was like that of many others. It had been founded, some 
generations back, by an Afghan adventurer, who had de- 
scended to India with a consignment of fruit from the 
paternal orchards. He had amassed great wealth by various 
means, more or less forcible; had purchased villages in the 
neighborhood of Hajigunje, and built himself this fine 
mansion. For one or two generations the family flourished. 
Then it began to decay. The climate, a climate exciting 
and* yet depressing, began to exert its baneful influence. 
Ample means permitted the gratificaiton of the passions 
and of the indulgence in sloth to which that climate in- 
cited. The men of the family no longer breathed the air 
of the field and the mountain, but of the shut and the 
darkened chamber. They were brought up in the hot, 
close, unwholesome atmosphere of the zenana, with all its 
baneful influences; they were brought up in the laps of 
women, in the vile company of eunuchs and slave girls. 
They passed their days in the midst of idle and vicious re- 
tainers, male and female, of panderers and flatterers. They 
went out to no school or college; they indulged in no manly 
games: what could they learn in the midst of women but 
effeminacy? Enfeebled in mind and body, any exertion of 
either became very irksome and was avoided. Activity, 
energy, prudence, forethought, gave place to indolence, 
idleness, carelesness, the desire to gratify every wish of the 
moment, without reference to the future. Money was spent 
extravagantly — in entertainments, in the purchase of 
beauty. Waste and extravagance emptied the hidden stores 
that economy and thrift had filled. Profusion may go with 
strength, but there came about among the men of the 
house that enfeebled condition in which all control over ex- 
penditure is lost, and the money is not spent on this thing 
or that thing, foolish but known, but drains impalpably 
away. Then came debt, and debt in the East, like every- 
thing else, has a very rapid and luxuriant growth. Then 
came the disintegrating influence of the continued division 


146 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

of the property among many heirs. Many brothers live^^ 
together in the paternal home, each with his many wives 
and concubines and servants, throwing a heavy pressure on 
the family resources, filling the house with jarring element^, 
with opposing interests, confirming one another in the 
special weaknesses and vices of the race. Every now and 
then there was a ’Son of the house who could resist these 
pernicious influences, retard their inimical working. He 
would go forth and throw himself into politics or war, re- 
lieve the drain on the family coffers, replenish them. Then 
came the British rule with its numbing and deadening in- 
fluence. The council chamber and the battle-field were no 
longer open to them. They lost all influence, political and 
social. They became of no account in the land. They 
turned more than ever to dissipation for excitement. Then 
the family had carried the sullen ’aloofness from their new 
rulers which was the attitude of most of their coreligion- 
ists, to its utmost height. 'They would have none of the 
new order of things; fulfill none of the conditions needed 
for success under it; would not learn the tongue of the 
accursed infidel; have nothing to do with his pernicious 
literature. ’ Was it not the chief thing needful that a youth 
should learn as much of the blessed Koran by heart as he 
could? The new land laws had told against them; the 
new law of debtor and creditor. 

There . had been an hereditary connection between the 
family and the royal house of Delhi. Zulfikar Ali Khan him- 
self had held a post at court. He had been a great personal 
favorite of the blind old monarch, old Bahadur Shah. 
They discussed literary subjects and quoted Sadi and Souda 
together. They both wrote verses. His handsome person, 
his quick intelligence, his high spirit, his pleasure-loving 
and pleasure-seeking disposition, had made him a favorite 
with the royal princes also. He was their boon companion. 
His quick wit and ready speech soon gave him the leading 
place in their social circle. He was their leader, too, in 
all their excesses. He drank the cup of pleasure, such as 
was presented to him, to the very dregs. He was the best 
known “ man about town^^ of the Mohammedan com- 
munity. He wore the loosest trousers, the most tran- 
sparent muslin long coat, the most highly embroidered skull- 
caps, and the most spangle-covered slippers of any man in 
Delhi; his approval or disapproval made or marred thet 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 147 

fortunes of the dancing-girls. He arranged drinking-bouts 
amid the roses and jasmines of the, gardens by the river. 
He drank deep of the forbidden cup. He kept game-cocks 
and fighting quails, and was the champion kite-flyer* of 
the town.' He was the friend and the patron of Lais 
and of Aspasia. This did not indicate shameless and 
abandoned dissoluteness. For Zulfikar Aii Khan’s was not 
a mere coarse and carnal dissipation/ as was that of most 
of his zenana-bred associates. He was hurried into his ex- 
cesses as much by his imagination as by his appetites. ' His 
was that eager grasping after pleasure to which men of a 
nervous temperament and quick mental powers are liable. 
The form this pleasure-seeking took was determined by 
the conditions of the society in which he lived, of the 
literature which he loved.. His intercourse with virtuous 
women was confined to his own household. This might be 
most affectionate, tender and pleasing, but it could not be 
the same as the intex*course with women unconnected by 
blood or the ties of near relationship, with all its subtle in- 
fluences. He could have no such intercourse with the 
female relations of his friends. He could not speak to 
them, much less of them. He could find the free and 
familiar intercourse with those of the other sex, so dear to 
the heart of man, only in the company of Lais or Aspasia. 
And if theirs was very bad company in one sense, it was 
very good company in another. They were the only edu- 
cated and instructed women, the only women with accom- 
plishments; with them he could have not only the most 
free and familiar, but the most intellectual converse also. 
Their . faculties, their seeing and hearing even, had not 
been dulled by the lifelong confinement of the zenana. 
They had seen things, heard things; they had lived in the 
open air. Their minds were active from play and move- 
ment; not stunted and withered from want of use. With 
them he could discuss events and men and books, and had 
not to confine himself to mere domestic prattle, mere house- 
hold gossip. With them he could not merely interchange 
laugh and smile, but also jest and repartee. From their 
mouths came the apt allusion to SMi, by their lips were 
the sweet songs of Hafiz sung. His favorite poets, too, led 

* In India, as in CMna, the flying of kites is a favorite amuses 
meat with grown-up men. 


148 ^ THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

Zulfikar Ali Khan into the flowery paths of vice. Wer^ 
not love and wine the constant subjecte of their verse? Did 
not Hafiz bid him, in his sweetest lay, disregard the bigots, 
and let the minstrel sing and the wine-bearer pour out the 
last drop in tlie cup, for “ in heaven he should not find 
the ‘‘ sweet waters of Rocnabad or the bowers of Mosellay 
When the soft strain bid him meet the beloved one in the 
rose garden in the spring-time of the year, the beloved one 
could not be Lucasta, chaste and fair, but only Lalage, 
fair but not chaste. 

Then came the reaction, violent in proportion to the ex- 
cesses. Then came the rush to the opposite extreme. 
From a roue, a rake, Zulfikar Ali Khan suddenly became a 
bigot and a devotee. From a scoffer at holy things he be- 
came a fanatic. From an utter disregard of the ordinances 
of religion, he passed to their observance in the minutest 
particular. Present obedience was to make up for 'past 
disobedience. He was now as ' ardent in fasting as he 
had been in feasting. The nights were no longer spent in 
revelry and song, but in prayer and the reading of the Holy 
Book. The fervor of his spirit now took a new direction. 
He would have had the unholy calling of the courtesan, the 
dancer, put down with that “ severity so often mentioned 
in the Koran. He would have enforced abstinence from 
wine, from tobacco, by rigid penalties — by stern excom- 
munication. He would have compelled a godly demeanor 
in all true believers — exacted a rigid compliance with every 
tittle of the law. He himself not only never missed now 
any one of the five ordinary prayers of the day, but always 
rose for the not obligatory but highly commended early 
morning prayer also. He observed the great fast of the 
Raniadhan with the. utmost strictness, although when it 
fcill in the hot weather months, the rigid abstinence, not 
only from food but from drink, during the many burning 
hours that lay between the rising of the sun and the eager- 
ly watched-for setting thereof was most injurious to his en- 
feebled frame, and often almost made the last breath 
tremble on his parched lips. 

But one great pleasure remained with him still, one 
cherished delight he had not to forego. He had not to 
give up the reading of his favorite poets. Of course, the 
greater part of his time was now taken up with the reading 
of the exalted Koran, but the reading of the poets, even of 


THE TOUCHSTONE OE PEKIL. 149 

those that sung of love and wine, was not forbidden. He 
had not to part company with his dear Hafiz. But the 
verse now took another meaning; it was no longer carnal, 
but spiritual. Love was not to be interpreted a's an earthly 
feeling, but as a divine and holy one; not as the love of 
woman, but of God. The wine whose praises they sung, 
as the giver of joy and gladness, was not the vile and for- 
bidden fluid, but holiness, piety; the exaltation was the ex- 
altation of the soul, the rapture that of the spirit. The 
tavern to which they continually bade you repair was the 
house of God. The wine-cup was the Holy Book. 

The strongest feelings of Zulfikar Ali Khan's heart were 
due to his long residence in Delhi. They were three in 
number. The first was a passionate love of the imperial 
city herself. She was the crown and diadem of all the 
conquests of his faith. Within her walls stood the proudest 
monuments of his religion and race; the great mosque, the 
fortress-palace, with its lovely Pearl mosque and its 
supremely beautiful Audience Chamber. Here was tf 
Silver Street, down the center of which ran the sparkling 
water-course, with its avenues of trees, its glittering wares 
and gay crowds, the boulevard renowned through all Asia. 
And now the great Mohammedan city was in the hands of 
the Christians, of the wine-bibbing, pig-eating infidel! 
Everything around him there had filled him with a passion- 
ate pride and a passionate regret. 

The second feeling was that of fervent loyalty to the 
royal house of Delhi, of deep devotion to the person of the 
blind old king. He reverenced and revered him as the 
head of the Mohammedan supremacy, spiritual and tem- 
poral, in India. He loved him as his own patron and 
friend: his heart was stirred to its deepest depths when he 
reflected on his personal misfortunes and his fallen estate, 
a blind old king shorn of all powers and dignity. The 
sovereignty of the monarch of Hindoostan did not extend 
beyond his palace walls;- he to whom the revenues of India 
were due had to beg for money to. meet his personal ex- 
penses. The far-famed peacock throne still stood in the 
midst of the world-renowned Audience Chamber, and the 
descendant of Akber and Shahjehan still sat upon it, but 
old, blind, helpless, the mockery of a king, the pensioner 
of a western company of traders, a captive in the hands of 
their servants. Was not this a sight to make the heart of 


150 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


a patriot, a true believer, and a loyal subject, burn within 
him? 

The third feeling was a passionate hatred of the English. 
Though this feeling had, and would have had, a separate 
existence of its own, it was intensified by the other two. 
He hated them with a race hatred, with a political and 
religious hatred. He hated them not only as all the na- 
tions of Christendom once hated the men of his own race 
and creed as “ Turks and Infidels, but as the Spaniards 
hated them, as conquerors, subjugators, alien rulers, as 
well. He hated them with that fierce, patriotic and re- 
ligious hatred which a man thinks justified, and in which 
he takes a pride— a hatred justified by the highest sanc- 
tions; he hated them in the name of God. 

"When he was at Delhi no one had excelled Zulfikar Ali 
Khan in that ridicule and abuse of the foreign rulers so 
common in India, as probably among all conquered na- 
tions, and of which the rulers, in their exalted self-com- 
placency, knew so little. Here his ready wit and flow of 
words found play on a congenial theme. No one raised the 
laugh against them so often as he; no one made more 
game of their rough speech and rude ways and foul feeding 
and indecent dress. No one excelled him in the invention 
of opprobrious epithets for them. 

As he settles himself down on the dais, Zulfikar Ali 
Khan resumes his interrupted labors with a firmer deter- 
mination, a more ardent zeal. His present occupation 
seems a very unlikely one for 'him, and one with which we 
have no concern. He seems engaged in some very exten- 
sive commercial undertaking. The dais is covered with 
letters and papers, memorandum-books, lists and schedules. 
The goods have been received. The consignment of wal- 
nuts has come to hand safely. An agency has been opened 
at such a place. Such a person has entered the firm. The 
bazaar is very warm here, very cold there. The figs have 
arrived and will be disposed of as directed. The circulars 
sent have been distributed. A meeting of the partners re- 
siding at such a place has been held; The apples should 
be packed more carefully: it would be better to send them 
by such a mode of conveyance. But this big business was 
simply the big business of the great conspiracy which was 
so soon to upheave- Northern India. All this was a secret 
language. All the terms had other meanings. The 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 151 

“ Firm in which Zulfikar Ali Khan is a ‘‘ senior part- 
ner is the conspiracy itself. The bazaar is warm or cold 
in places where it is gaining strength or not. A “ large 
purchase indicates the accession of a new regiment of 
Sepoys. The walnuts and the figs and the apples mean 
money and muskets and ammunition. The English 
ofiicials, civil and military, the police, the Sepoys, infantry, 
cavalry, artillery, guns, the post, Hindoo rajahs and Mo- 
hammedan nuwdbs, the King of Delhi, Oudh, Eohilkund, 
the Punjab, are all indicated by terms belonging to the 
counting-house and the market-place. There was little 
chance of these letters falling into the hands of the English 
officials, least so when sent through their own post, but 
even if they did so, their real meaning would not be sus- 
pected, they read like simple commercial documents. A 
great many of them, indeed, were written in ordinary 
language, but so couched as to appear eminently loyal. 
Zulfikar Ali Khan smiles, as he reads a letter, conveying 
to him information of some recent acts of incendiarism; as 
he reads how these foolish and misguided Sepoys seem to 
be setting themselves daily more and more against their 
kind-hearted and generous masters, the English. 

Zulfikar Ali Khan has thrown himself, heart and soul, 
into the conspiracy. It arouses the deepest feelings of his 
heart, the fullest powers of his mind. Here is a work 
worthy of him : to deliver his country from a foreign yoke; 
restore the supremacy of the faith over its greatest con- 
quest; bring back its ancient power to the scepter of his 
beloved monarch, its ancient luster to his crown; rebuild 
the fallen fortunes of his own house, raise it to a greater 
height than ever. Why should he not be another Fyzi? 
And every other consideration apart, profit or no profit, he 
is ready to spend himself, body and soul, in an attempt to 
overturn the power of the accursed infidel. And so he goes 
on with his task, devising fresh combinations, addressing 
communications to all who have reason to be dissatisfied 
with the Enghsh rule: princes who have lost their prin- 
cipalities, kings who have lest their kingdoms; the ex-King 
of Oudh, the ex-Ranee of Jhansi. This long letter is for 
his highness Dhondoo Punt, commonly known as the 
Nana Sahib. 

And so, while the ordinary routine of hfe, public and 
private, went on in the station of Hajigunje, while the mili- 


152 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

tary men attended their parade, and the civilians their 
office, while they rode and drove and went to the band, 
and played rackets and croquet, while they indulged in the 
gay festivities of the Christmas week, the plot against them 
was maturing in their very midst, unknown, unsuspected, 
undreamed of. The sunshine, lies bright on the vineyard, 
while the volcano is gathering strength below. 


CHAPTER XX. 

A NAUTCH. 

We have said that, on the night of the Hajigunje ball, 
there was an entertainment in the native town at which 
Amir Ali, Mrs. Dyke^s magnificent major-domo, was to 
have been present. It was at the house of a brother of the 
young Nuwab of Hajigunje. The wavering light from 
cressets and torches falls on quaint vehicles and richly 
caparisoned horses, on spear and shield and silver mace. 
A flood of light pours out from the windows of an upper 
chamber, from which float out also the sounds of music, 
sweet to the Eastern ear, harsh to the Western one. And 
to the Western eye this upper chamber, with its tinsel- 
coverfed pictures on the walls, its globes of colored glass 
hanging from the roof, would have a very tawdry look too, 
though the professional flatterer of Hajigunje is wont to 
declare that it surpasses in magnificence the fabled halls of 
the genii, and that when it is lighted up the sun and moon 
if introduced into it would show but as dark specks. 

The company consists, of course, entirely of men. Those 
of the highest rank sit on a dais at the end of the chamber, 
those of meaner degree on reed-made stools or on the car- 
pet, beyond the end of which, on mats or the bare ground, 
squat those of the baser sort. The entertainment now go- 
ing forward seems more fitted for children than grown 
men, for it is simply a puppet-show. But the perform- 
ances of these marionettes or fantoccini have held the same 
•place in India that they once did, I believe, in Italy. 
They have served as substitutes for the stage. The per- 
formances are continually varied: they depict historical or 
contemporary events; give expression to current political 
feelings; portray the manners and customs of the day. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


153 


The little figures .are richly and appropriately dressed, 
artistically grouped, and carefully moved about. 

Behold the glorious past. An Oriental court in all its 
splendor. The mighty monarch seated upon his gorgeous 
throne, holding a grand durbar: dispensing justice in pub- 
lic. The poet appears and recites his verses, and has a 
chaplet of pearls thrown round his neck. Let this good 
old man be clothed and fed. Let this wrong be righted at 
once. Take awaydhis malefactor and strike off his offend- 
ing right hand. 

Behold the inglorious present. The red-haired, red-faced 
English magistrate, in his indecent dress, its indecency 
exaggerated with gross humor, trying a case! He blunders 
as terribly in his law as in his Hindoostanee. He talks in a 
blustering, pompous, foolish way. He puts absurd ques- 
tions to the witnesses and ludicrously misapprehends their 
replies. He delivers a most foolish judgment. The audi- 
ence is in fits of laughter. Men seize one another by the 
arm — a great deal has been said of the grave demeanor of 
Orientals; there is a great deal of boyish abandon in it too. 
The Jemadar Sufder Jung — the reader will remember the 
.native officer, second in rank to Bhola Misr —who sits con- 
spicuous among those on the dais, a bigger man among his 
own countrymen than with the English, shouts Sahash ! 
(bravo!) and laughs oflt loud. 

And now advance the dancing-girls. The C3^mbals 
clang, and the short, double-headed drum, beaten on both 
sides with the hands, delivers its throbbing notes, and the 
bellyless fiddle sends forth its wailing cry. (Such was the 
music that King David heard.) And now Pidri (the Be- 
loved One) stands forth. She is gorgeously attired; her 
long sheet, which plays so important a part in her perform- 
ance, is of lightest gauze and covered with spangles; her 
bodice, which so exactly fulfills its office, is of crimson silk; 
her silken trousers are of the fullest; covered with jewels, 
no toe or finger vacant; her nose-ring of the largest; to her 
anklets are attached silver bells which she jingles as she 
dances. She shuffles about on her feet. There is no danc- 
ing in our sense of the word, but a great deal of posturing 
and pirouetting, of action with the hands, much bending 
and twisting of the body. These movements are said to be 
made in accord with the music and to be highly dramatic, 
expressive of love and tenderness and disdain, soft allure- 


154 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


ment or coy denial. There is a great waving and weaving 
of hands and arms, and soft undulations of the body and 
billowing forth of the thin gauze veil. Then she moves 
along in a dead straight line without ever lifting her feet 
from the ground by a curious wriggling movement of the 
hips. This seems, from the applause it receives, to be a 
tour de force, like the standing on the tip of the toe of our 
own, or rather the Italian, opera-dancer, and the one is 
about as graceful and decent a performance as the other. 
And then Pi^ri bursts forth into song. Her voice is not 
unmusical, but there is too much of that long-drawn nasal 
note, that maintaining of the voice at a high, shrill key, 
which characterizes all Oriental singing, of man or woman, 
from Japan to Tangier. And every now and then the 
male musicians join their voices to hers. 

If you want to see a nautch without going all the way to 
India for it, and it certainly is not worth the journey, 
attend a gypsy dance at Malaga or Seville. The world is 
a small one, and there has always been more intercom- 
munication between its various parts than we think for. 

There is a commotion at the door, a deferential moving 
aside of the guests, and a high, shrill voice, like that of a , 
eunuch, is heard exclaiming, “ Well sung, Piari! well 
sung,-’^ and a young man, whose silk trousers are as wide 
as thosg of Pidri herself, shuffles up Wie room with a minc- 
ing gait. He places himself on the dais close by the side 
of Zulfikar Ali, who has sat there with the air of moody 
discontent, austere and silent, and, passing his arm affec- 
tionately round his shoulders, says to him: 

‘‘ Why this depression, friend of my soul? Why this 
gloomy face when all the others around you are gay? Does 
not the dancing and singing of little Piari please you?’^ 
They do, and hence my dissatisfaction, my self-re- 
proach. I thought I had overcome my love of such follies. 

1 thought I had come to care but for higher and holier 
things, things of the spirit, not of the flesh. I came here 
to-night at the pressing of your brother. I have forsworn 
the nautch for years, striven to lift my soul above all care 
for it. And lo! I find that the graceful movements of 
Pidri and her sweet singing charm my eye and ear as much 
as ever. As SMi says in the beginning of the Rostan: 

“ ‘ Twoscore years of thy dear life spent, 

Thy thoughts stil] on boyhood’s follies bent.’ 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


155 


As he sap in the second line of the poem, ‘ I am still a 
prisoner in the nets of folly, ^ from which, as he says in 
the first line, ‘ May the Merciful One deliver me/^^ 

“ Never mind what old SMi says,*’^ cried the young 
nuw«ab, it was he of Hajigunje, gayly, “ let us take the 
advice of the honey-lipped Hafiz, 

“ ‘Oh, minstrel, the pleasing strain renew, 

Ever 'so fresh and ever so new.’ 

And does not the divine singer say in the same sweet song, 

“ ‘ The last drop in the cup, my boy. 

For in heaven we’ll be away 
From the sweet marge of Rocnabad, 

The bowers of Mosellay’ ?” 

** Truly, said Zulfikar Ali Khan, “ Hafiz was a divine 
singer. But the ignorant and foolish-hearted people have 
'made him an earthly one. They have attached a sensual 
meaning to his words; have degraded them and him. The 
wine with which he bids us fill ourselves and be drunken is 
not the vile fluid, forbidden by the Prophet (on whom be 
peace), forbidden by nature, for it takes away our senses, 
but the wine of holiness, which exhilarates the soul and not 
the body, which raises us to the condition of holy spirits, 
and does not degrade us to the condition of brute beasts; 
which does not give us a transitory and fleeting pleasure, 
but bestows on us an abiding and ever-increasing joy. 
Tdie wine cup is prayer and meditation on the Holy Book.^^ 
The bigots, whom he bids us despise, may have read 
these meanings into the words of Hafiz, but you may be 
sure that the cup be held in his hands was a cup like this, 
and the wine he bade us drink was good wine like this.^^ 

He had taken a little jeweled cup from off a lacquered 
tray, held out to him by a youthful Ganymede, with well- 
oiled locks, who had come up to him with a horrible, lan- 
guishing mien, and he tosses off the fiery potion at a gulp. 

Zulfikar Ali Khan makes a gesture of disgust as the reek 
of the liquor reaches him. The yfiung nuwab laughs. 

“ You liked it once,^^ he cries. 

“ Take a whiff of this,^^ and he holds out the beautiful- 
ly-chased silver mouthpiece of a splendid hookah that had 
just been placed on the floor below him. 

“ No, I have abjured that too. There is a text in the 
Koran latif that forbids the smoking of tobacco. 


156 


THE TOUCHSTONE. OF PEEIL. 


‘‘ If there be/^ said the iiuwab, it will not be the first 
by many that we have disregarded. You did not mind 
texts much when we were at Delhi together, friend of my 
'heart.'’'’ 

It was an evil time. I have been a great sinner and 
done wickedly — and what better am I now?’'’ 

“ It was a merry time, and a happy time,'’^ cried the 
young nuwab. ‘‘ And we shall have a merry time and a 
happy time together in Delhi yet, oh, friend of my youth! 
before our hair is gray, and our backs are bent, and we 
begin to look on the ground for the years that are gone, as 
Sadi has it. 

“ Ah, Dehly, beautiful Dehly!^^ cried Zulfikar Ali Khan, 
using, as he always did, the softer pronunciation of the 
word, “ the crown, the queen, the pearl of cities."’'’ 

She will be the seat of joy and pleasure when the mer- 
chants come by their goods again,'” said the nuwab, using' 
the language of the great conspiracy. 

Yes, the seat of true joy and true pleasure; the seat of 
learning and of piety, of justice and of truth. Oh, to see 
her delivered from the polluting presence of the pig-eating 
Kazarene, with his smooth talk and his craft! For this I 
live; for this I am prepared to die. But I forget. I am 
opening the mouth of foolishness.'” 

There, are none but friends here,'” said the young man, 
looking round. 

One can not be too careful; one can not be too cau- 
tious, especially novr. The tiger is most quiet before be 
leaps — ” 

‘‘ Good! Well said! We shall leap like tigers. ” 

A man was now performing a comic dance similar to 
that which is common among the savage tribes of Africa, 
and in which there is a great deal of protrusion of the 
hinder parts of the person. It amused the audience very 
much. But the next performance amused them infinitely 
more. Two men came forward, one dressed as an English- 
man, the other as an Englishwoman, he with very tight-fit- 
ting trousers and a tall black hat, she in an old gown with 
many flounces, and an enormous bonnet. They each take 
a chair by the side of a small table, on which stand a bottle 
of brandy, a water-bottle of earthenware, and a couple of 
tumblers. They make believe to drink very freely, clink- 
ing glasses: they exchange amorous glances, and then begin 


THE TOrCHSTGNE OF PEKIL. 


157 


to make love to one another in a manner that sends the 
audience into fits of laughter. But whe2i they stand up 
and he offers her his arm, and they walk to the open space 
at the end of the apartment and begin to dance together, 
ending with a violent waltz, the laughter becomes convul- 
sive; the walls almost shake with the loud ha! hal^s; some 
of those seated on the floor roll over with laughter; the 
stout jemadar is holding both his sides, and the tears run 
down his cheeks; ‘He! he! he!^ laughs -the nuwdb in a 
high, shrill cackle; and even Zulfikar Ali Khan smiles. 

“ Truly they dance just like that,^-’ said the nuwab, 
when he had recovered his voice. ‘‘ I have just seen them. 
I have just come from the Feringhee nautch. Ya, I 
laid! (Oh! Lord!) how violently they do dance. How 
they do whirl about, men and women clinging to one an- 
other, just like that, round and round. Surely, Zulfikar 
Ali, it does not befit the dignity of a man to dance, and 
yet there was the Collector Sahib, that huge, big man, 
performing chukkurs (revolutions) and spinning round and 
round until he was red in the face! Then there was that 
fat woman, his wife, with her arms bare up to the armpits 
and her back and bosom naked, spinning round with a young 
many’s arm round her waist. Bap ki kusm! (I swear by 
my father!) Kliuda hi kusm! (I swear by God!) I 
never saw anything like it. It was shameful. Surely it is 
better that women should be secluded, as with us, than ex- 
pose themselves like that.'’^ 

Without doubt, said Zulfikar Ali Kfian. “Women 
are by nature weak and foolish. Freedom is dangerous for 
them. They should be kept in strict retirement.'’^ 

“ But oh, Zulfikar Ali! Oh, my friend! I saw at this 
dance two such beautiful girls! Two moon-faced houris! 
cypress-like in shape! with swan-like movements! their 
eyebrows like the bow of Cupid, from beneath which are 
darted forth the arrows of love! Teeth like pearls! Lips 
like coral, or the pomegranate blossom! Cheeks like 
roses! Truly they made my liver water within me. Aj 
rat to myne ishq ka jhok khya (To-night I hav-e indeed 
sustained the shock of love). Pure-faced! fairy-faced! 
Such e3^es! Such lips! Such rounded arms! Such deli- 
cate forms! With the color on their cheeks they could not 
be called anything but Lalla Rookh!” 

“I have not, heard you talk like this since we left 


/ 


158 THE TOECHSTOiq^^E OF PERIL. 

Dehly/^ says Ziilfikar Ali. Truly there you found many 
fairies like these. 

“ Never like these. Seriously, my friend, when the 
great day comes special means must be taken to secure 
these girls. They are the daughters of the indigo man at 
the Hajigunje Factory. You can take one of them: it is 
the elder one that I prefer, and shall have sent to my 
zenana. 

‘‘ Hush! hush !’^ said Zulfikar Ali, moving uneasily in 
his seat, and casting an uneasy look around him. “Be 
not so imprudent in your speech. Everything now depends 
on our prudence and caution. Not a whisper of our de- 
signs must reach the ears of the English. We must not 
awaken their suspicion, disturb their serene self-confidence,^^ 
and his voice dwelt sneeringly on the word serene. 

The nuwdb was about to say something, but was pre- 
vented. 

A man now stood forward and began to declaim or chant 
some verses. The moment he began there was a dead 
silence throughout the room. They were some lines writ- 
ten by Bahadur Shah (the King of Delhi) himself, on his 
own condition, and which he had at this time sent forth 
and enjoined to be recited hi all assemblies of the faithful. 
In this lament, a very short one, he bemoaned his fallen 
estate; he had become as a pelican in the wilderness; his 
crown was no longer a sign of dignity, or his sceptre a sym- 
bol of power; he sat upon his throne bowed with age, old 
and blind, and utterly helpless. The verses moved the 
company greatly; they listened to them in a deep silence, 
broken only by expressions of sympathy and sorrow. There 
could be no more merriment after that; and the assembly 
broke up just about the time the English people sat down 
to supper at the ball. 


CHAPTER XXL 

LOVE COMPLICATIOHS AND A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 

After the festive Christmas week the quiet that had pre- 
ceded it once more settles down over Hajigunje, for most 
of the residents leave it for their final round under canvas. 
But this period of outward peace and calm and quietness is 
one of inward unrest and tumult and turmoil to the sisters. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


159 


Mary and Chloe Neale. This is more especially the case 
during the first fortnight, which they spend in Hajigunje 
in their hired house.' > They can not pointedly make a 
change in their usual habits. They ride out of a morning 
as usual, and are joined by Dacres and Sawyer as usual— 
Shlivan Bird has gone into camp. But to Mary now the 
joy and triumph of riding with Percy Dacres, to Chloe the 
annoyance and humiliation of riding with “ Bob^^ Sawyer. 
And Chloe ’s case is surely harder than Mary^s had been. 
The grief of surveying a fair domain with longing eyes, 
knowing it can never be ours, is nothing compared to the 
son’ow of having possessed it and then lost it. It is hard 
to descend from a throne. And whereas, under the former 
condition of things, only one person, Mary, was made 
miserable, two were rendered sorrowful by the latter, for 
Sawyer cared as little to ride with Chloe as Chloe to ride 
with him. It was now on Mary^s side of the carriage that 
Dacres placed himself at the band, and this left no room 
for Sawyer, for Dacres was a big man, and so poor Sawyer 
had to go over to the other side and martyrize Chloe and 
himself. Had we the skill of the practiced writer, we , 
might try to depict the comic side of this tragic scene, try 
to narrate the forced: and broken talk of these two while 
both were really listening — they could not help it — to the 
conversation on the other side. And Mrs. Neale sat sur- 
prised, troubled, uncomfortable, between the two groups. 
It is Mary whom Dacres seeks for his partner at croquet. 
It is by Mary’s side that he places himself after dinner. It 
is she he solicits for his favorite song, his favorite piece. 
It is to her that he pays his attentions. 

It is saying a good deal, but there is as much gossip and 
scandal in an Indian station as in an English country town. 
You are there even more under the microscopic observation 
of your neighbors. The barber goes round of a morning to 
shave the men, and the retailing of news has from of old 
been a part of his business; the ladies relieve the tedium 
of the long hours of in-door idleness by a lengthy toilet, in 
the course of which they hear all the news about their 
neighbors from their ayahs. But Hajigunje is just now 
empty. Mrs. Dyke, who is most fond of observing, and, 
if ppssible, directing her neighbors’ affairs, is not there. 
Mrs. Zouch has carried her keen eyes and lively tongue for 
a time elsewhere, Colonel Monk, who would have been so 


160 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


interested in remarking the sudden change in the running, 
is away inspecting the other half of his regiment. Major 
Zouch is absorbed in the art of wSr, and has taken advan- 
tage of his wife^s absence to elaborate his plans, for the de- 
fense of his compound, a favorite subject of thought. But 
as he and Steele are sitting together at Qhota Hazree in the 
mess veranda one morning, and see the cavalcade pass by 
in its new order of arrangement, 

“ It seems to me/^ says Major Zouch, that Dacres is 
wavering in his allegiance to the younger sister, and trans- 
ferring his services to the elder one. Don^’t you think so?^^ 
Steele looks up with a curious look on his face, but says 
nothing. 

‘‘ Raising the siege here to attack the other fortress, 
formerly he always rode with the one sister, now he al- 
ways ride& with the other. You must have observed 
this?^^ 

“ I have,^^ says Steele, curtly — there is a harshness in his 
voice, which is usually a very sweet-toned one. 

‘‘ I prefer Miss Mary myself. Do not you, Steele 
But Captain Steele does not express his opinion. His 
eyes are following the cavalcade, which goes by at a walk. 

‘‘ She is so much cleverer. You must have remarked 
that. Have you ever talked to her about Napier^s ‘ Pen- 
insular War ^ The British bayonets came glittering up 
the hill. ^ She knows the whole passage. You should 
hear her repeat it. It is grand. Miss Chloe has a very 
piquant and sparkling beauty, but Miss Mary^s beauty is 
of a far higher order. Do not you think so, Steele?^^ 

But Captain Steele does not seem inclined to discuss the 
subject, and makes a remaik about the weather. 

It was a time of great suffering and sorrow to Chloe, of 
great temptation and trial to Mary. Mary Neale was but 
a young girl; she had not escaped an unvvorthy feeling of 
distress at being “ cut out by her younger sister; she 
could not avoid a feeling of delight at having regained her 
natural position of superiority, she could not but exult in 
the change. But she was of too noble a nature not to try 
and overcome and set aside such feelings. But was 
she bound to overcome and set aside the feelings of tri- 
umph and joy so far as they concerned herself alone? ^She 
was sorry for her sister, but might she not be glad for her- 
self? Was she in such a case to try and stem and turn 


THE TOUCHSTOiq^E OF PERIL. 


161 


back the current of Dacres^ feelings? Was not this a mat- 
tp that so deeply concerned them all that in its determina- 
tion the feelings must be allowed free and unrestrained 
play? They alone could lead to a safe and happy conclu- 
sion. If Dacres’s feelings had really undergone a change, 
if they had turned, by a process of natural selection, from 
one sister to the other, it were better for Chloe herself that 
the change should be acknowledged and acted upon. Bet- 
ter for her a short misery than a lifelong one. Better for 
all that Dacres should follow the path he really liked than 
keep to one he disliked because he had entered upon it. 
No use plowing the whole field wrong because of the first 
crooked, furrow. Was she to set herself against an arrange- 
ment calculated to promote the ultimate happiness of them 
all, simply because she herself was one of those whose hap- 
piness was concerned? And— perhaps the feeling that 
weighed most with her — was not his happiness the matter 
of chief moment, of greatest concern? But herein Mary 
deceived herself: Dacres was not actuated by any overbal- 
ancing passion for her.^ 

Ohloe Neale at this conjuncture showed greater strength- 
of character than most of her friends and relations would 
have given her credit for. -At first she had shown her 
distress in an open and undisguised* manner; there was on 
her face for some days that look of mingled astonishment 
and surprise and distress there is on the face of a child 
when its bird has fiown out of its hand. For some days 
she could not restrain some inquiring, nay pleading, looks 
at Dacres. But when she saw that he was determined to 
turn away from her she assumed a look of indifference and 
ease. She strove to be as mirthful and playful as of yore, 
but it was easy to see there was something strained in her 
gayety. When Dacres was with them she did really main- 
tain that air of easy indifference in a wonderful way. But 
she could not struggle against her feelings all day, and 
when the stimulus, the goad of his presence was with- 
drawn, she would wander about the house in-an uneasy sort 
of way, now trying to do this thing and now trying to do 
that, and not caring to do either. Her face grew pale, her 
step languid. Too soon do the roses fade from the cheeks 
of England's fair daughters under the burning sun of In- 
dia, but not so soon as this; too soon does the activity of 
the West give place to the languor of the East, but not so 


162 THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 

soon as this. Mary marks the change with an aching heart. 
Her grief is added to by seeing that her mother marks it 
too. She wonders that her mother says nothing. But 
Mrs. Neale had always held the opinion that in such affairs 
of the heart there should be no interference, not even of 
the nearest and dearest; they should be left to be settled 
by those to whom the hearts belonged. A parent was, of 
course, bound to interfere under certain circumstances. 
But, as a rule, those concerned should be left to manage 
the business for themselves. She grieved, but did not 
speak. 

In the midst of all this turmoil of the feelings Mary 
Neale received her first proposal of marriage: 

‘‘ My dear Mrs. Neale, — I received from your 
youngest daughter at the band last evening the intimation 
that you will in a couple of days terminate that visit to the 
station which has been productive of so much enjoyment 
to every one in it, not least of all to myself. I therefore 
propose to call upon you to-day for the purpose of bidding 
you farewell. I should also like to seize this opportunity 
of making to your eldest daughter a communication which 
I am very desirous of addressing to her. I would, there- 
fore, request your permission for a private interview with 
her. I shall be at your house about half-past twelve 
o’clock, as I should like to make this communication to 
Miss Neale as early in the day as possible. I meant to 
have sent this letter to you earlier, but was dela3^ed at the 
dispensary by a difficult operation, the removal of a huge 
tumor from the side of a young — but I will tell you about 
it when we meet. Looking forward to the pleasure of see- 
ing you a couple of hours hence, and with best regards to 
yourself and your daughters, believe me, my dear Mrs. 
Neale, yours very sincerely, 

“ Theodore Augustus Sawyer. 

“Hajiounje 13^7i January, 1857.” 

This was the letter that was put into Mrs. Neale’s hands 
one morning as she and her daughters sat at breakfast, 
Mr. Neale having gone out to the factory to arrange about 
getting it ready for their return. 

Dear! dear! I wish your father were here,” cried Mrs. 
Neale, when she had read the letter to herself. “ What 
am I to do? What am I to say? It is most unfortunate 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


163 


that your father should have gone out to the factory just 
this very morning, the only morning on which it matters 
whether he is here or not/^ 

“ What is the mattet,. mother asked Mary. 

“ I can not send out to your father, for it is now nearly 
eleven o^ clock, and he says that he will be here by half past 
twelve o’clock. Dear! dear! these things are very trouble- 
some. I wish your father were here. ” 

“ But the letter is only from Doctor Sawyer,” said 
Ohloe, glancing at the handwriting. “ Why should it 
trouble you so?” 

‘ ‘ Because I have to answer it at once, and I do not see 
how I can do so without consulting your father. Dear! 
dear! I wish your father had not gone out to the factory. 
I am sure there was no need for him to do so. ” (It was at 
her own request that he had gone. ) 

“ But what is there in the letter?” asked Mary. 

‘‘ It is from Doctor Sawyer.” 

Yes, so we see — ” 

‘‘ And he says he is coming to call at half past twelve 
o’clock to wish us good-bye — farewell, he says.” 

There does not seem to be much difficulty in answer- 
ing that,” said Mary. Wffiy should that trouble you?” 

“ But he also says that he wants a private interview with 
you, Mary. I do so wish your father were here. ” 

“Ido believe he wants to propose to you, Molly!” cried 
Ohloe, in the greatest excitement^ and calling her sister by 
the pet name she has not used for some time past. “ Did 
I not tell you so?” 

“ It will be very easy to give Doctor Sawyer an answer,” 
said Mary. “ Tell him that I decline to have a private in- 
terview with him. ” 

“ I can not do that, my dear,” cries Mrs. Neale, peev- 
ishly, for she is placed in the position she most dislikes; she 
has to act at once, and upon her own judgment. “ I wish 
your father were here.” 

“ I wonder how he will do it? *1 wonder what he will 
say?” cries Ohloe. 

“ I suppose I can dispose of the part of the letter that 
concerns myself,” says Mary, angrily. “ Let Doctor 
Sawyer come, and I will remain in my own room, and you 
can tell him that I do not wish to see him. You can then 
ask him about the tumor.” 


164 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

‘‘ My dear, this is a serious matter. How can you decline 
to see him without giving a reason? There is no reason 
why you should not see him.’’’’ 

‘‘ I do not choose to.-^^ 

“ I do not see how you can refuse to see him; and at the 
same time I do not like to take upon myself the responsi- 
bility of letting you see him.^'’ 

The thought that she was in actual contact, as it were, 
with a proposal of marriage, was very exciting to Ohloe 
Neale, and made her completely forgetful of her own 
troubles. She now gives her advice, and speaks good com- 
mon-sense. 

If father were here,^^ she said, I am sure he would 
say that if Doctor Sawyer wants an interview with Mary 
she had better grant it him. There is no reason why she 
should not. And it would be better for Mary herself to do 
so, and get the business over. You may be sure Doctor 
Sawyer will not leave her alone until he has had this inter- 
view. He has pestered us enough already. 

“ I am sure I do not know what to do or say,^^ cries poor 
Mrs. Neale. 

“ The doctor sahib ^s servant waits for an answer, the 
khansaman comes to say. 

Mary reflects for a few minutes. 

Lengthen out agreeable things as much as you like, 
but shorten disagreeable ones,^^ had been a favorite saying 
of one of her uncles. Dr. Sawyer probably would have his 
interview sooner or later, and it was as well he should have 
it at once. She was determined to refuse him, of course, 
but should he not be allowed to plead his cause? There 
was something not unpleasing in being proposed to, even if 
you refused. She was a woman and curious. So she said, 

Chi be is right, mother. I will see Doctor Sawyer. He 
shall have his interview, and I hope he will like it. 

“You will not be rude to him, Mary. It is not his fault 
if he is in love with you, poor fellow says the tender- 
hearted Mrs. Neale. 

“ Will you accept him, Mary?’^ asks Chloe, in a demure 
voice, and with an innocent look. 

“ Do you think it likely?^ ^ asks Mary in return, and 
then there flashes across them both the significance of the 
remark in connection with the recent change in Dacres^s 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PEEIL. 165 

attentions, whicli they had both for the moment forgotten, 
and Mary looks confused and Chloe sorrowful again. 

Dr. Sawyer has been but a few minutes in the drawing- 
room when Mrs. Neale rises, with that air of elaborate un- 
concern and unnatural naturalness usual on such occasions, 
and says: 

‘‘ Your visit is so early a one. Doctor Sawyer, that I have 
not yet been able to give out the things for dinner. I hope 
you will excuse my leaving you. Will you come with me, 
Ohloe? My daughters are learning housekeeping, and they 
both promise to be good housekeepers, Doctor Sawyer.-’^ 

“ Most useful knowledge, says the doctor warmly, and 
with a delighted and approving smile. Mary frowns, and 
her mother departs hastily, feeling that she has said what 
she had no desire to say. 

And now Mary Neale and her lover are alone in the room 
together. Mary has made a rapid forecast of the probabili- 
ties of the situation. In the last proposal scene she had 
read, Fitzherbert had fallen on one knee, and, taking 
Amanda by the hand, had exclaimed, ‘‘ Angelic creature!'’^ 
Now this she would not have. She would take care that 
Dr. Sawyer should not fall at her feet or seize her by the 
hand. And if he called her angelic creature,^^ she would 
prove to him straightway that she was not one. So she 
avoids all the many low easy-chairs, and seats herself in a 
high one, with a table before her for a barricade. Dr. 
Sawyer rises from his chair slowly and solemnly, places a 
chair on the other side of the table, opposite to Mary, and 
seats himself in it with great deliberation. Mary glances 
at him as he moves slowly about; her heart is going pit-a- 
pit, pit-a-pat; the red tide is rising slowly into her cheek, 
as you see the sea-water extend itself over the flat sand. 
Her eyes are cast down. 

“ I have always been of opinion. Miss Neale, that people 
should, marry early he pauses. 

Mary bends her head. 

“ Both men and women. It is the natural condition ’’ 
— he pauses again. 

Mary bends her head a Little once more. 

‘‘ Of course prudential considerations must by no means 
be disregarded. That is why professional men do not, as a 
rule, marry until middle age in England. Had I remained 
in England I should not, most likely, have thought of 


If36 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

marrying at my present age — thirty next July. But it is 
quite a different thing out here; I mean for a man in the 
service. He has a certain and increasing income^, a pen- 
sion, to look forward to. Then in England the great 
anxiety is in connection with a provision for one^s wife and 
children in case of one’s death. Here that is removed. 
Here, as you know, Miss Neale, the funds provide for the 
widow and children.” 

Mary bends her head again, but now a slight smile plays 
about her lips. She has been so anxious about the prelimi- 
nary step: she finds herself advanced to matronhood — 
widowhood. 

In England,” goes on Dr. Sawyer, “ a large family is 
a heavy burden to a widowj but to our widows a large 
family is an advantage; it adds to the income. Each child 
has its own pension. ” 

Dr. Sawyer pauses for a moment; then resumes: 

‘ ‘ On that head, therefore, there is no cause for anxiety. 
Miss Neale. ” 

Miss Neale thinks she ought to say something, but does 
not quite know what to say. 

‘‘ My pay. Miss Neale — ” 

This is just the point at which she would rather not look 
up, but she can not help doing so, just one little glance up- 
ward. 

‘‘ My present pay. Miss Neale, is over six hundred rupees, 
per mensem, for I have charge of the jail, and also act as 
postmaster. You may call that seven hundred a year in 
English money. A very fair income to marry upon. ” 

Dr. Sawyer pauses, his face beaming with satisfaction. 
But as Mary makes no remark, he goes on: 

And I have also a little sum of money ” — the emphasis 
on little sum implying that it was probably the reverse — 
“ in the bank. Miss Neale.” 

“ You are, indeed, very well off. A fixed and certain 
income is a very great thing, ” says Mary, finding from the 
long pause Dr. Sawyer makes this time that he expects her 
to say something. “ It removes so much anxiety. But I 
do not think money — ” 

‘‘ Of course not. But I wish also to inform you. Miss 
Neale, that having made up my mind to marry, I have 
been furnishing my house with that end in view. I have 
got all the furniture for the dining-room. — dining-table. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF . PERIL. 


167 


sid-eboard, dining-room chairs — and many of the heavier 
articles for the drawing-room, round-table, conversation- 
couch, and so on; but I have, of course, left the lighter 
articles, such as the ornaments, to be chosen by the lady 
herself. 

Mary has an impression that Dr. Sawyer^s eyes are fixed 
on her with tenderness. Perhaps she will come in now with 
the furniture. 

‘‘ But I have just bought one piece of furniture for it. 
You may remember my asking you one day. Miss Neale, if 
you could live without music, and you said you could not.^' 

Mary does not remember, but she bends her head in ac- 
quiescence. 

“ I saw a piano advertised in the ‘ Delhi Gazette ^ for 
eight hundred rupees, for which eleven hundred had been 
given three months ago, a Broadwood grand, and I have 
bodght it. " 

I am afraid I shall not play much on that piano, says 
Mary, reflectively. 

‘‘I know that ladies very often do not keep up their' 
playing and singing after marriage,^ ^ says Dr. Sawyer, 
“ and I think it a great pity. 

I mean, said Mary, and then she stops short. He 
has not actually proposed to her — she can not refuse him 
before he has done so. 

‘‘ So, Miss Neale, I hope — 

‘‘ I do not see how your arrangements concern me.^^ 

Of course they do,^' says Dr. Sawyer, with animation. 
“ It is for you I have bought the piano. Prom the first 
moment T saw how beautiful and strong and healthy — 

“ Stop,^^ cries Mary. 

‘‘ Will you marry me. Miss Nealer^^ 

‘‘No."" 


Dr. Sawyer for a moment looks ' quite dumfounded. 
Then he says, as if he had not heard her aright. 

“ I beg your pardon."" 

“ I said no."" 

“ But why? I know that Dacres has begun to pay his 
attentions to you, and that is why I — ’" 

“ Stop,"" criet Mary, peremptorily. And now the red 
tide rushes in full flood into her cheeks. 

“You must not bring any other name into the discus- 
sion. It is only a question between you and me. You 


168 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


have put me a question and I have answered it. I will not 
have my answer discussed or disputed.^'’ 

But, Miss Neale, it seems to me there can be no other 
reason.'’^ 

“ I will not have my answer discussed;’^ and Mary puts 
the hand, which with the wrist above Dr. Sawyer has often 
admired for their combination of beauty and strength, down 
firmly on the table. 

That is rather hard.^^ 

I did not invite the question. 

“ And I have bought the piano. 

‘‘ I really can not have the whole course of my life deter- 
mined by that fact. 

“ How can I have it in the house. They will chalf me 
to death about it. They chaff me unmercifully, as it is, 
about the furnishing of the house. 

Mary makes no reply, and there is silence for a few min- 
utes. 

“ I must write and ask them to keep it where it is. You 
will not mention — 

“ No,^^ said Mary, rising from her chair; and the disap- 
pointed wooer rises from his. They are now standing face 
to face. 

Will nothing induce you to change your mind. Miss 
Neale? I really do care for you very much, and I think I 
should make you a kind and careful husband. 

He says these words in such a feeling, honest, manly 
way, that after hearing them Mary feels a respect and lik- 
ing for him greater than she had ever thought possible. 

No,^^ said Mary, “ I am a very obstinate person. But 
I hope we shall be friends. Doctor Sawyer?^'’ 

“Always,^' said Sawyer, taking the hand she held out 
to him. 

“ Doctor Sawyer has proposed to me, and I have refused 
him,^^ said Mary, when her mother and her sister, after 
having watched Dr. Sawyer ride away on the little pony, 
came hurrying into the room. 

“ I hope you did not speak unkindly to him, Mary, 
says the tender-hearted Mrs. Neale. ^ 

“ What did he say, Mary?^^ asks the curious Ohloe. 

“ You will tell my father, of course, mother. But be- 
yond that there must be no further mention of the matter. 


THE TOUCHSTOHE OF PEKTL. 


169 


I have promised Doctor Sawyer that it should be so. I 
will' not say, or listen tp, another word about it myself. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

THEY GET ENGAGED. * 

The first month of that new year which is to prove so 
fateful, so terrible an one to so many, which is to occupy so 
black a page in the annals of our rule in India, has slipped 
away; has danced by. It is a brilliant, joyous month. 
The sun is now on his ascending- course, but is still a be- 
nign, fostering young monarch, not a fierce, destrojdng old 
tyrant. He does not as yet keep his . burning eye fixed on 
his subjects for too long. , It is a delightful month. The 
air isffull of sparkling sunshine, though still cool and crisp 
and invigorating. But those bright days are dark ones to 
the sisters; the joyous season one of gloom; the invigorat- 
ing period one of depression. Ohloe Xeale^s bodily vigor 
dechnes as if the fierce dry heat of June, the fierce damp 
heat of August, were already . upon her. Day by day her 
eyes grow less bright, her step less elastic. Nor are Mrs. 
Neale’s looks in accord with the season. The brightness 
which the touch of her native cold had brought into her 
cheeks, the joyousness with which the advent of her daugh- 
ters had overspread her countenance, are dimming and de- 
parting. And Mary Neale can but share their suffering. 
As she watches the increasing distress of her mother and 
sister she grows more and more troubled; doubtful whether 
she had done well or was acting rightly. She has put forth 
her powers of pleasing, striven to make Dacres feel that the 
change was not for the worse. Is this not an aiding and 
abetting of him in his crime? Is she not turning a tem- 
porary coolness, not uncommon among lovers, into a per- 
manent alienation? Robbing her sister of her lover? Is she 
doing well by Dacres himself? Is she not helping him to 
put a stain upon his name? It is all very well to say that 
it is best that he should follow the true impulse of his 
heart; had not the first one been the true one? That 
thought tried her- sorely. How could she bid her sister let 
the recreant lover go if she took him for herself? Was she 
to make so terrible, so irreparable, a breach in the lately 
completed sweet round of their family love? Could she and 


170 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


Dacres ever take a real place in the family circle? Would 
not that noble life which she had intended to lead have 
broken down ah the very beginning? Was this in accord- 
ance with her high ideals? But if Dacres really loved her? 

And so the two seifs fought within her. She was not 
one to make advances — her pride was too high, her maid- 
enly dignity and reserve too strong — under any circum- 
stances. But she had received Percy Dacres^s advances. 
Now, however, these reflections, the sight of Ohloe’s paling 
cheeks, her mother ^s sadness, produce a change in her feel- 
ings and behavior. If she does not repel Dacres^s advances, 
she accepts them with more coolness and reserve, more 
hesitation and constraint. 

All this turmoil and suffering and struggle have been in 
progress since their return to the factory. Mr. Neale has 
been away for some three weeks* on business. *On his re- 
turn matters come to a sudden climax. 

“ Why, what is the matter with you, child ?^^ cries Mr. 
Neale, as he sees the girls for the first time at breakfast, 
addressing Ohloe. 

‘‘ Nothing, father, replies Ohloe, with a smile on her 
lips, but with tears in her eyes. 

“ What is the matter with her, Ann? How pale and 
thin she looks — 

“ I think the gayety of the Christmas week was too much 
for her. They did too much every day. They got up early 
every morning and went to bed late every night. I am 
sure such pleasure is hard work,^^ says Mrs. Neale, hastily. 

She is very anxious that her husband should not suspect 
the real cause of Ohloe ^s indisposition; with his hot temper 
this may lead to fresh complications, fresh access of trouble. 
He probably would not hold with her' theory of non-inter- 
vention. 

‘‘ That is the worst of these festive gatherings,^ ^ says 
Mr. Neale; ‘‘ people try and cram the gayety of a year into 
one single week.^^ 

‘‘Yes; and then they exhaust themselves so that it takes 
them months to recover. ' ’ 

“ I remarked before I went away that she did not come 
back from the morning rides looking so blithe and bonny 
as she used to when she first came in to Hajigunje.^'' 

The cheeks of all the women pale, there is a troubled 
look upon their faces. Mr. Neale is what they call “ hot 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 171 

in the childish game; very near the hidden thing. So Mrs. 
Neale says, hurriedly, 

‘‘You know the riding did not agree with her, John, 
when you took them out first. She has been overdoing 
herself. She wants a tonic. 

“ I think a glass of port wine would do her more good,^^ 
says Mr. Neale, like all men inclined to alcoholic remedies. 
“ I will get out some of Saademan^s. 

“ You must take care and not lose your roses so soon, 
my child he exclaims, as he lays his hand kindly on her 
head in passing behind her chair. 

Having been away so long, Mr. Neale is anxious to get 
back to his office, and so walks quickly on. Had he re- 
mained he would have seen how the touch of his hand had 
sent the tears running down Chloe’s cheeks. 

As they stand, side by side, before their toilet-table, that 
night, Mary lays her hand softly on Ohloe^s shoulder, and 
says: 

“ Are you really not feeling well, Puss?^^ ' 

“ Why have you taken him away from me? Why have 
you taken him away from me?^'’ cries out Ohloe, wringing 
her hands. 

“ Hush! hush!^^ cries Mary, in great agitation. “ You 
must not speak like that. Neither of us has any claim 
upon him — 

“ Has he not been paying me attention since the very 
first day we met? Ho you not know that? Could any girl 
have had greater attention paid her? And — and — and 
then Ohloe stops. 

Mary too is silent. This is the weak point on her side 
of the question. There is no doubt that Dacres had been 
paying Ohloe great attention. Then she says somewhat 
sharply, 

“You may remember that I warned you, Ohloe. I told 
you that a girl should guard her heart very carefully. She 
must assume nothing until the man has spoken. It is for 
him to speak. He may pay her attentions, and then leave 
off. He is not bound until he has spoken; until he has 
entered into an engagement. She must not give her heart 
. until it is asked for. 

“ But if he pays her attention, and makes her like him, 
how can she help it?^^ 

“ It is her own fault, because she knows that nothing 


172 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

may come of it until the man speaks. He may begin the 
courtship, and he may end it. It is his privilege. She 
knows that. She should take care.^^ 

“ But when a man comes courting you?’^ 

“ Courtship with the man is only a trial of mutual lik- 
ings: if he thinks, even at the very last moment, that there 
is not sufficient liking on his side, he may break it off; he 
is bound to do so, both for his own sake and for hers.^^ 

“ I am sure that he likes me more than he does you,^^ 
cries Chloe, coming directly to the point. 

And she was right. Her instinct told her true. Her 
thoughts and feelings and character were more within the 
range of the comprehension, appreciation, and liking of 
Dacres than those of her sister. 

“ But that is just what we have no right to assume, no 
right to speak about. You can not assume his love — liking; 
you can not acknowledge your own, until he has made a 
declaration. 

‘‘ But then why did he make me think so? Why has he 
been so pressing in his attentions? Why was he so — so — so 
kind to me when he was teaching me riding. Why did he 
always ride with me? Why did he always walk with me? 
Why did he always come and sit by my side? You know 
he always did. Why did he dance with me so often at the 
ball? Why did he take my hand and squeeze it and kiss it, 
when we were sitting together in the veranda?^^ 

“ What!^^ says Mary, with a start. 

‘‘ Yes; that night, the night of the ball, when we were 
sitting together in one of the recesses in the -veranda, after 
the last dance, and I was lying back in the easy-chair, and 
my arm was hanging over the side, and he was sitting in 
the other chair, close by, and he took my hand, and pressed 
it, and then he kissed it.^^ 

“ Did he do that?^^ says Mary, in an altered voice. 
Chloe^s cheeks have now as much color in them as they 
ever had, and her eyes flash as she says: 

“ Yes, and do you think I should have allowed him to 
hold my hand, to kiss it, if I had not thought that he — 
that he cared for me? Was it honorable and right of him 
to do so if he meant nothing by it? Was it not because of 
this that I tried to meet his looks the next day? That I 
wanted him to sit by me? That my heart followed him 
about like a dog? And that very next day he began to pay 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


173 


his addresses to you, began to pay his addresses to one sister 
when he had kissed the hand of the other the night before. ” 

Chloe stopped. There is a dead silence in the room. 
Mary has sunk into a chair. Chloe stands looking at her 
with bright eyes, as if expecting her to speak; her beauti- 
ful fair hair has extended its ample length far down her 
back. But the silence is only broken by the voice of the 
watchman without, as he shouts, “ Take care, oh, my 
brethren! Take care! Be watchful! Be vigilant! Be 
brave. The rising moon sends a ray through the win- 
dow, and fills the room with a strange, commingled fight. 
The silence continues, and Chloe seats herself on the edge 
of the bed. She is startled by hearing Mary laugh. Then 
Mary comes and seats herself by her side, and puts her arm 
round her waist — 

You do not really believe that he would make love to 
two sisters at once, do you. Puss? Uo you not see that it 
is make-believe so far as I am concerned? He is only doing 
it to try you. To make sure.^^ 

“ Do you think so?^^ 

“ Of course I do. " 

‘‘ It is very cruel of him.^^ 

“ People are very cruel to one another when they are in 
love, and because of that love. But it will be all the better 
in the end.^^ 

She embraces her sister tenderly. 

“ You do not think. Puss, I would rob you of your lover, 
even if 1 could? I do like him very much, and I hope 
hereafter I shall be very fond of him for your sake. But 
as you know, and say, he likes you more than he likes me. 
Has he not shown it in every way? And I do not care for 
him as — as — in the way you think — thought. 

Whether the recording angel had any need to cast a tear 
on that statement I know not; but certain it is that at that 
moment Mary Heale entertained but little love for Percy 
Dacres. 

“ But I do not understand, began Chloe. But Mary 
her. 

will himself make you understand. Do not let us 
speak about it. I am so grieved to have been the cause of 
any trouble to you, dear, and any reference to it will only 
make me very unhappy. Do not let us .speak about it any 
more, now or hereafter,^ ^ and she folds Chloe in her em- 


sto;|)ped 


174 THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 

brace, and the sisters kiss tenderly, in token of reconcilia- 
tion. 

Sweet is Ohloe iN'eale^s sleep that night; sweet her 
dreams. But to Mary the night is one of storm and strug- 
gle. She passes through one of those periods of agony and 
strife which are known but to ourselves, which impress us 
with the terrible truth of our own individuality, of our 
utter loneliness in the world. 

^^Be brave of heart! oh, my brethren! Be braye of 
heart !^^ shouts the old watchman without. 

Steele and Dacres are seated together at breakfast in 
their big, bare dining-room. 

“I hope, Dacres,*^ ^ says the former, “you will not be 
annoyed at what I am going to say. 

“ That means that you are going to say something an- 
noying."" 

“ But I hold it a friendly act to tell a man what people 
are saying about him. "" 

“ It is the one friendly act the performance of which a 
man may always rely on."" 

“ They say that you are not behaving well to Miss Ohloe 
Neale."" 

“ People should mind their own business."" 

“ Mrs. Dyke says she is delighted that you have thrown 
her over, because she set her cap so openly at you, and 
hopes you will throw the other sister over, too. "" 

Dacres is very angry. He applies to Mrs. Dyke a series 
of epithets the reverse of complimentary, and then bursts 
out: 

“ Is it only for my benefit that you have told me this, 
Steele? or a little bit for your own? Do you happen to be 
a little bit interested in one of the sisters yourself?"" 

Steele"s thin cheek twitches, and he rubs the end of his 
long, thin nose with his forefinger. 

“ I told it to you for your own sake, and that of the girls 
whose people have been so kind to us. "" 

The earth keeps revolving on its axis, and moving along 
its orbit. The days go by, the seasons progress. The 
wheat crop has passed its tender infancy, and is now in its 
lusty manhood. The days of the sugar-cane have been 
numbered, and it has been cut down and passed through 
the press; the air around the factory has, for some time. 


175 


THE TOUCHSTOHE OF PEEIL. 

been redolent with the sweetness of the boiling juice. 
Pease and cauhflowers are plentiful. Fresh flowers are 
coming into bloom in the gardens every day. 

Mary Neale has driven into the station one morning with 
her father. While he is arranging at the Bullock train 
oflice for the dispatch of his indigo, she is to pay a visit to 
Mrs. Zouch. As she is driving out of- the post-ofiBce com- 
pound, she comes on Dacres walking along the road. She 
stops to speak to him. 

Are you going back to the factory he asks. 

No, I am going on to Mrs. Zouch ^s.^^ 

Will you give me a lift as far as the mess-house?-’^ 

‘‘ Yes;^^ and Dacres jumps into the dog-cart. 

“ Excuse me. Miss Neale, but you do not hold the reins 
right, and he stretches out his hand as if to take hers. 
But she moves it away. 

Thank you; but I learned to ride and drive before I 
came out here. It was my sister who was the novice. 

Dacres colors. 

How is your sister?^^ he asks. 

‘‘ She is not well,^^ says Mary, gravely. 

Nothing serious, I hope. 

‘‘ No. But I never like beating about the bush, Mr. 
Dacres. What has come between you and my sister? You 
used to be very great friends. There seems to be a coolness 
between you now. In fact, you are more friendly with me. 
Perhaps it is because I am her sister that you are so friend- 
ly; it is only on that account that I allow it. But other 
people may not think so. When we passed Mrs. Dyke, 
just now, you may have remarked the look on her face.^^ 

‘‘ I did; the horrid, fat old thing, says Dacres, apply- 
ing to Mrs. Dyke the word, abhorred 'of George IV. of 
England, which he knew she would have most disliked, 
could she have heard it. 

“ But we must not give her, or any one else, occasion to 
misjudge us. You will understand, Mr. Dacres, that I am 
not* speaking to you on Chloe^s behalf. She would be very 
angry if she knew that I had spoken to you at all on the 
subject. I think you know, us well enough by this time to 
understand that we are not likely to be anxious about the 
friendship or good-will of any one. You asked me about 
my sister, and I can only say that I think she has been dis- 
tressed by the change of relation between you. If you wish 


176 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


■ ' ’ to be of the ordinary kind, such as 



subsist between you and me, she is 


not one to wish it otherwise, but it is a pity you did not 
keep it on that footing from the beginning. 

The station of Hajigunje is not a very large one; Mr. 
Neale kept no horses that did not travel fast. They have 
reached the gate of the mess-house; Mary pulls up. 

“ Thank you,^^ says Dacres, jumping out. I will 
come and call in a day or two. I should have called on 
Mrs. Neale before. He had not been out to the factory 
for a fortnight, or three weeks. “ Tell your sister that I 
am very sorry to hear that she has not been well. 

Tinie moves on. The old/familiarity between Dacres 
and the residents in the old mausoleum has been renewed. 
Dacres has thought to go back at once to the old footing 
on which he had stood with Ohloe. Her society had really 
been more pleasant to him than had that of Mary. Mary 
did not seem to be able to understand, or enter into, his 
jokes as Chl^ did. She only smiled faintly where Chloe 
would have been in fits* of laughter. He had encountered 
critical and inquiring- and even reproving looks from Mary, 
never any but soft, approving ones from Chloe. Mary was 
constantly making allusions to things in books which, he 
not being able to follow, put him out. Mary Neale lived 
at this time very much in the world of romance, and the 
personages of that ideal world were very much with her. 
She was always making reference to them, or quoting their 
sayings. She was the more given to this as it was a favor- 
ite mode of talk with her mother, as also with Captain 
Steele, and these ideal personages formed to all three of 
them a circle of living friends. It is very delightful to 
have those good pure people of the company, but then they 
must be known to every one present. 

Mary quotes one of the foolish speeches of Mr. John Col- 
lins to Dacres, and he asks: 

‘‘ Is that Collins of the 29th?^^ 

No,^^ says Mary, demurely, ‘Mie is in the Church. 
Or she makes an allusion to a saying of the prying, garru- 
lous Miss Pratt. 

“ Miss Pratt— Miss Pratt. There was a Miss Pratt 'at 
Simla. 

“ I do not think this one ever left Scotland. 

Captain Steele knew who Higg the son of Snell was. 


THE TOTJOHSTOHE OF PEKIL. 177 

In short, Dacres did not experience the delightful and 
proper sense of superiority with Mary that he did with 
Ohloe. The latter looked up to him. (How could he 
know of the pinnacle on which the former secretly placed 
him.^) The latter fell down and worshiped him. (How 
could he know that the former, too, had made a god of 
him?) In short, as he himself would have expressed it, he 
was ‘ ‘ more on the grass with Ohloe. Then her more 
sparkling loveliness had a greater attraction for him than 
Mary’s more stately beauty. So Dacres was desirous of re- 
verting at once to his former position. The discovery of 
how much more agreeable the society of Ohloe had been to 
him than that of her sister had made him imagine that he 
was more in love with Ohloe than he really was. But he 
found that he could not regain his old footing all at once. 
Ohloe did not receive his renewed advances as eagerly or 
readily as he expected. Her coldness and indifference, real 
or assumed, only made him press those advances the more 
hotly. Favors too readily granted are undervalued: the- 
difficulty of getting a thing enhances its value. Dacres 
thought more highly of Ohloe now that she was cold and 
shy and haughty than he had in the days of her facile com- 
plaisance. Nothing could have been more artful than her 
giving way to her natural feelings. Her unexpected re- 
luctance and reserve inflamed his ardor and brought him 
the sooner to the wished-for end. 

It is now the windy equinox of March. The happy time 
of long nights and short days has past. The corn is ripen- 
ing. The flowers in the garden are in fullest bloom. The 
mango-trees are beginning to blossom on their southern 
sides. The evenings are beginning to lose their soft dewi- 
ness, and to be hard and clear. But they are graced by the 
splendid presence of Orion — Orion, grand and beautiful. 

They have seen the monarch sun sink down in his golden 
glory. They watch the queen moon rise in her silvery 
splendor. They have come back along a pathway which 
winds through the now tall wheat, which they have watched 
in its uprising. They, Mr. Neale and his wife, and Mary 
Neale and Colonel Monk, then stand for awhile in the ve- 
randa looking out on the moon-lighted scene. 

“ Where can they be?” cries Mrs. Neale, anxiously. 
‘‘ They were close behind us just now.” 


178 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

“ They have not been close behind us for some time/^ 
says Colonel Monk, with a laugh. 

“ I hope they have not got lost,” continues Mrs. Neale. 

‘‘l am afraid they have,^^ say§ the colonel, with another 
laugh. 

“ Is it they coming up that avenue?^ ^ exclaims the timid- 
hearted mother. “ Why, they must have come quite a 
different way from what we did. 

“ Quite a different way!” observes the white-haired old 
soldier, dryly. 

There is no want of elasticity in Chloe Neale steps as 
she runs up into the veranda, no lack of color on her 
cheeks, no want of brightness in her eyes. 

Before dinner-time the great secret is known. The newly 
engaged couple sit side by side. The meal is not so merry 
an one as most that have preceded it within the last few 
months. There is a certain degree of formality and awk- 
wardness about it, more so even than is usual on such occa- 
sions. Colonel Monk is the only one who is as lively and 
cheerful and unconstrained as usual. 

But when the girls are at last by themselves in their own 
room Chloe gives way to a burst of ecstasy and delight 
which, strange and even a little contemptible as it seems to 
Mary, to whom a deep silence of joy would have been the 
only thing possible, is yet to her a reward and consolation 
for her own self-sacrifice. Chloe throws herself into her 
sister^s arms, and whispers, 

“ Oh, I am so happy, Mary!'^ 

“ God bless and keep you, my dear!^^ says Mary, ten- 
derly. 

“ It does seem hard to have had one’s daughter to one’s 
self for so little a time,” says Mr. Neale, when he and his 
wife are in their own room together. 

“Poor child! She is beginning life very early,” says 
Mrs. Neale. 

And when, in the course of the night, Mr. Neale hears 
his wife sobbing gently by his side he does not admonish 
her, or reprove her, reproach her for her weakness, or bid 
her make an effort. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OE PERIL. 


179 


CHAPTER XXin. 

PREPARATIONS FOR CHLOE^S WEDDING. — MARY FINDS 
WORK. 

Xow that Dacres is engaged, he is all for being married 
as soon as may be. Mr. Neale demurs. He shoiRd like to 
have his little girl with him for one year at least before she 
is lost to him forever. The cold weather is the best time 
to marry in. But that is his busy time, Dacres says. He 
has three'months^ leave due him.. If they marry at the end 
of June, by which time the rains will have come, and 
brought back joy and gladness to the earth, they can have 
a delightful honey-moon up in the hills. Tender-hearted 
Mrs. Neale is on the side of the lovers, and what can Mr. 
Neale do against their united pleading? And so the little 
station of Hajigunje not only enjoys the excitement of an 
engagement, but looks forward to the greater one of a 
marriage, in the little church where such a ceremony has 
not been performed for the past twenty years. 

So Dacres has carried oft one of the prizes — the 
second. Who will win the first? Sawyer, or Bird, or 
Steele? I still back Bird, though his being out in camp 
has given the others a long start. But Sawyer seems to 
have slacked off rather within the last few days. I wonder 
why? He was making the running hot enough a week or 
two ago,^' says Colonel Monk. 

And now the old mausoleum is filled with the bustle and 
excitement of a coming wedding. Chloe Neale^s wardrobe 
does not need supplementing to any great extent, but it 
does to some — in fact, could Mrs. Nea^e ever think it quite 
complete? and so for days perspiring coolies moved under 
the huge bundles and bales which their master, ih.Qkupra- 
walas, or cloth-merchants, are carrying out for exhibition 
to the factory. Five temporarily engaged tailors sit in the 
veranda, by the side of the old permanent family tailor who 
had made Chloe ^s baby frocks for her. 

Dacres sets to work to furnish his house. The married 
couple are. to occupy^ the metty little bungalow the Neales 
had lived in during the Christmas week. Mr. Neale has 


180 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


declared his inteniion of supplying the young couple with 
everything for the table — crockery, linen, plate, glass — 
and, being a man of prompt action, has ordered them at 
once. Dacres has only to get the furniture. It is not to 
be procured in Hajigunje itself. But it is now the season 
of the year when that breaking-up of house and home, 
which is so marked a feature of Anglo-Indian life, is taking 
place on a large scale, when people are beginning to take 
flight for the hills or for England. How eagerly do Chloe 
and Dacres scan together the advertisement colilmns of the 
Delhi Gazette (What sight in nature is so pretty as 
that of two birds building their nest at pairing time!) How 
delightful the discussions and consultations! “ Shall we 
buy this sideboard or that pair of chiffoniers?^^ “ These 
dish-covers now?^'’ ‘‘ That set of curtains?'^ “ Here is a 

great chance. The Commissioner of Agra going home. 
All his things are sure to be good, and we can get them so 
soon. 

‘‘ I shall write for the meat-safe and the set of jelly- 
molds at once, says Dacres, with decision. 

“ I should like to give them a piano as my own present, 
John,^^ says Mrs. Heale, as she and Mary and Mr. Neale 
are seated in the veranda together, Chloe and Dacres being 
as usual in-possession of the drawing-room. I do not know 
how it may be in parks and palaces, they may be large 
enough to contain them, but in the >smaller dwelling-places 
to which I am accustomed engaged couples bulk very large 
and occupy the whole house and grounds. You can not 
enter the drawing-room without a preliminary cough; you 
can not turn a corner in the gardens without a premonitory 
hem ! 

‘‘ A good, piano is expensive,^-’ says Mr. Neale; a bad 
one is neither worth giving nor having.-’^ 

“ I know,^^ says Mary, in a somewhat hesitating voice, 
“ of a good piano tl/at can be got cheap. 

“Doyouf Where?^^ 

“ Doctor Sawyer has it.-^^ 

‘‘ Sawyer! I have not seen it.^^ 

He has not got it here. He bought it only the other 
day. He has left it at the place where he bought it. ” 
‘‘But why does he not get it here?’^ asks Mrs. Neale. 

“ Hum! I see, as the blind man said,^^ says Mr. Neale, 
marking the rising color on Mary’s cheek. “ Too san- 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 181 

guine. ^Does not want it now? But/^ mischievously, 
would you not rather he kept it. Miss Mary?^^ 

“No; I should be glad to help him to sell it. It is ap- 
parently a good one, and he bought it at a bargain. 

“ Well, we^ll see about it; we ^11 see about it. But you 
are quite sure you would not rather he kept it?^^ 

“ Quite. 

The gorgeous month of March goes by trailing her golden 
garments. What a delightful month for the engaged 
couple! What delightful rides in the morning! What de- 
lighful ^afternoons passed in some shady nook in the gar- 
den! What delightful drives in the evening in Dacres's 
dog-cart! And the nights are now warm enough to allow 
of a stroll along the moonlighted avenues, most delightful 
of all. Very delightful to them, hut not so delightful to 
Mary. It can not be said that she was enthely free from 
all feelings of envy and regret. It could not be so. Dacres^s 
fine personal appearance had affected her imagination 
much; she had clothed him with all heroic attributes. All 
that can be said is that she strove hard to overcome all 
selfish feelings, to subdue and drive away all ignoble 
thoughts. Whatever her own regrets, she rejoiced with 
Chloe in her joy. Who could help being touched with that 
pretty, childish joy? She had been as a mother to Chloe 
for many years. But still self-sacrifice, self-abnegation are 
hard things; the desire for joy for one^s self a very strong 
one. This would have been a very trying time for Mary 
had not something arisen to give her employment, take her 
out of herself, engage her attention strongly. 

One evening they had a dinner-party, and seeing Captain 
Steele seated by himself, in lonely isolation, in one corner 
of the drawing-room, afar from the laughing group formed 
by her father and mother, and Mrs. Zouch and her hus- 
band, and Chloe and Dacres, and Colonel Monk and her- 
self, she sacrifices pleasure to duty, and goes over and seats 
herself by his side. They take up their usual topic of talk. 

“ Any fresh impressions of India to communicate to me 
to-night. Miss Neale? The land is very flat and flowerless 
and ugly, and the unbroken succession of sunshiny days 
very monotonous. Anything more?^^ 

“ No,^'’ she says, somewhat gravely and sadly, and not 
with the usual answering smile; “ but I have lately been 
feeling more strongly than ever that feeling of loneliness 


182 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


and isolation of which I have spoken to you before; that I 
am a stranger in a strange land. It is not merely that the 
country about here is so uninteresting, so different from 
what I had expected it to be with its palm-trees and pagodas 
and beautiful exotic fruits and flowers, that I so long to 
seethe beautiful English land with its green grass and 
undulations and trees again, to walk along a lane, to see a 
meadow with its buttercups and daisies; but that I should 
like to see the pump and the village green, and the 
funny little shops again, with the sticky things in the win- 
dow, and the butcher-boy driving his cart, and the cart- 
horses, and the children coming out of school. I want to 
feel a part and portion of the things and people about me. 
It is so confusing, so terrible, to be among millions of peo- 
ple who differ so completely from one^s self in manners 
and customs and religion, and color. You and I agree. 
Captain Steele, in our horror of what they call the preju- 
dices of color: in dishking to hear people talk of ‘ niggers ^ 
and ‘black fellows,^ and look down on them because of 
their skin. But I find that color does make a difference. 
I do not seem to be able to catch the expression on a black 
face as I do on a white one. White faces look so much 
more bright and cheerful. 

“ It is mostly, of course, familiarity. But I suppose the 
white face reflects the light more, while the dark face ab- 
sorbs it more.^^ 

“ One seems to be in a new world, in which one has no 
part or portion. I seem to feel this aloofness the more 
just now because I am getting tired of being idle, ashamed 
of being useless. In England I used to do district visiting, 
teach in a Sunday-school.’’^ 

“ People can be kindly and useful wherever they are. 
There are people here whom you may visit, children here 
whom you may teach — 

“ Among the natives?’^ 

“Well, no — but you know the little bungalow, with a 
tiled roof, at the corner of our lines?^^ 

“ Yes*; we used to pass it very often when we were liv- 
ing in Hajigunje. We used to see two girls walking about 
there, dark-faced but very good-looking: one of them had 
the most splendid black eyes I ever saw. There was a boy, 
too. 

“ It is about them I want to speak to you. Their moth- 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


183 


er is a native, a Burmese woman, but a Christian. Their 
father was a Scotchman of the name of Graham. He was 
the bandmaster of our regiment. A very quiet, respectable 
man. He died last year, leaving his family very badly off. 
In Hajigunje there is no one, absolutely no one, with 
whom these children can associate. T^iey are thrown per- 
force into the society of the Sepoys and the other natives 
about them. It is a perilous situation for them; one from 
which they should be rescued.'’^ 

“ How can it be done?^^ cries Mary, eagerly. 

I am trying to get the girls into the Lawrence Asylum, 
but just at present there are no vacancies. The lather 
seems to have taken great pains to teach the children as 
much as he could, and I have had the boy up to my house 
for some months and given him lessons. He says your 
father is on the lookout for a clerk, and he means to apply 
for the post. Will you use your influence in his behalf?^^ 

‘‘ That I will. I will get my father to take him on at 
once. 

Without any inquiry as to his character or qualifica- 
tions?^^ said Steele, with a smile. But I think he will 
find the former good, and the latter sufficient for his pur- 
pose. The father seems really to have taken great pains 
to teach these children. The girls, of course, get no teach- 
ing now, for the mother can neither read nor write. 

I could teach them,^^ cries Mary. 

“ The girls are just now without any guiding or restrain- 
ing influence, social or religious. The mother is a good 
enough woman, but she is as much a heathen as a Chris- 
tian. I do not suppose the original heathen training is ever 
entirely eradicated. She still believes in witches and 
demons. 

Could not the girls come to me? or, I could go to 
them. We must not leave them as they are."’^ 

I expected you to say that,^^ says Captain Steele, in a 
tone of voice that brings the color into Mary’s cheeks. 
‘‘ But neither would be very practicable, if only because of 
the distance. It would be better if they could be near you, 
and that could be managed if your father takes the lad 
on.^^ 

“ How?"" 

He might allow the family to live in one of the factory 
buildings. It would be a great kindness. "" 


184 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OE PEEIL. 


‘‘ The very thing/ ^ cries Mary, delightedly. ‘‘ You 
seem to have thought the whole thing out. Captain Steele. 

“ I have,^^ he says, quietly. 

“ I will ask my father at once.^^ 

It so happens that Mr. Neale is now advancing up to 
them with a face all wreathed with smiles. He has just 
said a good thing. It is a propitious moment. 

“ Oh, father, I want you to do me a favor, a very great 
favor cries Mary, stepping forward to meet him. 

“ What is it?"’"’ says Mr. Neale, with some surprise at 
her undrawing-room-like eagerness, and regarding with 
fondness and admiration the lovely face now lighted up 
with high emotion. (Captain Steele had his eyes fixed on 
it too. ) 

“ What do you want? The moon?^^ 

“ Something more easy to get than that,^'’ and she ex- 
plains the case in a few short sentences, to which, however, 
her strong emotions give the ring and rhythm and choice 
of words of high eloquence. She expects her father to as- 
sent at once, but he says : 

‘‘ I can not do this without knowing something more of 
the lad and the family. ” 

“ Oh, Captain Steele knows all about them.'’'’ 

‘‘ That is not enough for me,^^ says Mr. Neale, some- 
what sarcastically. “ How old is the lad?^^ 

“ Seventeen,’^ says Steele. 

“ And the girls?^’ 

“ Sixteen and fourteen. 

Mr. Neale proceeds to make other inquiries, to raise ob- 
jections. Mary then perceives, what Captain Steele had 
seen before her, that this reluctance is due to the proposal 
having come from the unpopular Captain Steele, to his in- 
terest and concern in the matter: had it come from Colonel 
Monk Mr. Neale would have agreed to it at once; in fact, 
he asks why the family had not got the colonel to speak to 
him. 

“ Well, said Captain Steele, rubbing the end of his 
long, thin nose, “ they have somehow placed themselves 
under my care. It would have been more correct to have 
said that he had assumed it. 

But Mary’s urgency prevails. Mr. Neale consents to go 
and visit the family and see for himself. 

To-morrow?” 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL, 


185 


‘‘ No; not to-morrow. In a day or two.^^ 

But at length a day is fixed and Captain Steele is to pre- 
pare the family for the visit, and meet Mr. Neale and Mary 
at the house. 

Mrs. Graham was a portentously ugly woman. Had the 
worthy and pious Scotchman contracted with her one of 
those irregular alliances which were common in those days 
it might have been thought that he had chosen so ugly a 
woman as a salve to his conscience, but as he had duly mar- 
ried her (after having had her baptized), it must have been 
the look of good-humor, which so often accompanies and 
redeems ugliness, which had attracted him. Mrs. Graham 
has put on full dress to receive her visitors, and as this, 
after 4;he manner of her class, includes a long, white veil, 
her appearance astonishes and amuses Mary very much. 
And if the mother’s getting-up of herself is an odd one, 
nature’s get-up of the son is a very odd one, too, for he 
combines the red hair and blue eyes of the father with the 
dark skin and Malay features of the mother; but he seems 
to have derived the good qualities of the widely separated 
races, too, and he has a shrewd, sensible, good-humored 
face. Both the girls are very handsome: they have skins 
of a pearly, or rather china, whiteness, and their large, 
black, liquid> antelope eyes and raven-black hair would 
have gained them a higher place for beauty in western 
countries than tv here they were, in a black- haired, dark- 
eyed land. Mary finds them both excessively shy. At 
first she can hardly extract a single word from them. This 
angers the mother, and she addresses them in her broken 
English. 

“ Arreh holo Filora ! (Oh, speak. Flora!) Bolo Elijah 
(speak, Eliza!) What for you not speak! speak to lady. 
No speak. Naughty gals. When no want speak, speak 
much; no open mouth now. Tongue shake much every 
day; lose tongue now. ” 

Mary asks the girls some questions as to what they have 
learned, but still can get no answer. 

“ Arreh mooh hholo (open your mouth, do!) cries the 
old lady. “ Why do you become like dumb man? Speak 
thousand word every day; no speak one word now.” 
Then, turning to Mary, “ Many book got. Father teach 
them many thing. Teach them to read Bible, Ginsis and 
Deutermony and New Testamin. Teach them Our Father, 


186 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


and What is your name? and For what going to receive. 
He good man, Graham, and tears stand in the worthy 
woman^s eyes. “ Show books to lady, Elijah. 

The girls go away and come back with handfuls of books 
— spelling-books, arithmetic books, MagnalTs Questions, ” 
Goldsmith^s ‘‘ Histories of Rome and England,^ ^ Blair ^s 
“ Sermons, and many other devotional books. They 
speak with the nasal twang peculiar to their class, and 
which even English children brought up in India acquire, 
and once acquired never get rid of, but Mary finds them 
very quick-witted and intelligent. She is much amused 
with the sudden change from shyness to confidence, from 
silence to volubility; by the sort of loving veneration these 
impulsive young creatures display toward herself before she 
goes away. 

Mr. Neale takes on the lad. The family remove to the 
factory buildings in a day or two. The teaching and train- 
ing of these two girls affords Mary an occupation of the 
deepest interest, until the great catastrophe, now not far 
off, comes to end it all. Here are minds and feelings of a 
totally different order from any she has had to deal with 
before. Mrs. Graham^s talk amuses her very much, but 
her mental condition interests her still more. Mrs. Gra- 
ham has not ceased to be a heathen because she has become 
a Christian. It is what we hear and do, and see- and learn, 
and eat and drink when mind and body are forming that 
makes them both. Those earliest impressions can never be 
obliterated. Mrs. Graham ^s mind presents a curious 
psychological phenomenon — as we should call it now, 
though Mary had not even heard of the word then. 
Through the medium of her and her daughters, Mary Neale 
finds herself plunged into the curious realistic religious at- 
mosphere of the East, has the first inkling of what a few 
years^ living in India teaches those who care to know. 
There God is not an abstraction, the future world has not 
been removed to an infinite distance. Or rather there is no 
future world, there is no other world but this. Here is the 
earth, and there the vault of heaven, and between the two 
we pass our infinite series of lives, through infinite ages. 
A life of fifty or sixty years, beginning from nothing, end- 
ing in infinity, what a ludicrously incongruous series! We 
come from infinity and go to infinity: that is not it, either: 
there is no break; we neither come nor go; we are infinity. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 187 

Men go up into heaven, gods come down to the earth. 
Sometimes we belong to the parlor grade, sometimes to' the 
kitchen. Sometimes we wear the rough garb of beasts; 
sometimes the finer clothing of men; sometimes the glori- 
ous raiment of gods. There religion is not a separate 
thing, but an intimate part of men^s lives; every act of 
their lives is religious; their eating and drinking a daily 
sacrament, their pots and pans sacred vessels, their hath a 
daily baptism. The spirit world is all around them; good 
spirits and bad, angels and demons, fairies and genii, and 
imps and sprites inhabit the earth with them. They are 
continually seen. They are continually doing them a good 
turn or a bad. Nothing that Mary could say could con- 
vince Mrs. Graham that her husband had not been killed 
by a demon who lived in a tree which he — her husband^ — 
had cut down; Tie caused the fever. 

The mental condition of the two girls, too, was a subject 
of unceasing interest. It was not quite like that of the 
mother, but not like her own. The things that were so 
familiar to her were strange to them. She illustrates her 
teaching by reference to a poker; they have never seen or 
handled one. But with them, too, it is in connection with 
religion that she finds so new and strange a mental atmos- 
phere. Scripture teaching here was a very different thing 
from what she had found it in England. Here it was not 
incredulity that was troublesome, but overfaith. These 
girls had a ten times more vivid faith than her own. Their 
belief was too great. That you must approach the reading 
of the Scriptures not with the ordinary inquiring, critical 
mind, but with a prepared and devout and reverential 
spirit; that you must believe, not inquire; that faith is 
higher than reason; all this had no need to be' said here. 
There was nothing in the Bible which was not to them 
vividly real. They did not view a miracle with reveren- 
tial, somewhat frightened, half-shut eyes,. They accepted 
it fully, wholly, literally, simply as related. ' Such things 
had happened then as they happened now. The only difii- 
culty was that their ready belief seemed to render the mira- 
cles less miraculous— to Mary, not to them. The speaking 
of the serpent, or of Balaam^s asst any explanation was not 
needed; they knew of birds and beasts that spoke and gave 
messages and conveyed warnings. The man who was torn 
of devils; there was a man in the neighborhood of Haji- 


188 


THE TOtJCHSTON'E OF PEEIL. 

gunje in the same condition. The healing of the sick: 
there was a Mohammedan saint within a day^s journey of 
them who could cure certain diseases by the touch of his 
hand. The pool of Siloam: the water at the foot of the 
sacred stairs at Hurdwar was also troubled once every year, 
and the halt, the maimed, and the blind crowded to it, 
ready to step in at the propitious moment. The devil who 
stood by the side of the Master on the pinnacle of the tem- 
ple was to them a real personage, and not what he is now 
to most English divines, what he was to Mary. 

Mary had many discussions on this subject with Captain 
Steele. The care of the girls brought her into constant 
communication with him, as he was making arrangements 
for their future provision. These enthusiastic girls were 
loud in their acknowledgments of what Captain Steele had 
done for them, even, as Mary was somewhat surprised to 
learn, in the way of direct pecuniary assistance. But the 
mother — though she had a dark skin she was a human 
being — said that what she felt m'ost grateful for was his 
sympathy with her in her distress. 

‘‘He very good gentleman. Captain Steele, she said. 
“ He speak very kindly and nicely to me. He say Graham 
very good man, and he be my friend. He tell gals they 
must be good, and not forget what father taught them. 
He teach my son every day. Much trouble take. 

And so Miss Neale is playing the Lady Bountiful with 
these two dark girls, says Mrs. Dyke. “ Treats them 
quite as her friends. But there is really no reason why she 
and her sister should not be friends with them; more than 
that they should be friends with us. They are more of the 
same class'. 

“ I wish you would not talk like that, Clem!’^ says Mr. 
Dyke, with unwonted irritation. “ Get away, Juco!^^ 
spurning away his favorite pointer, as much to her aston- 
ishment as to her grief. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

ANOTHER PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 

It seemed to be in Hajigunje just now as it was in the 
days of Noe before the great flood' came, when they thought 
of nothing but marrying and giving in marriage. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OE PEEIL. 


189 


One fine, clear April evening Mr. and Mrs. Dyke, on 
their way to the band, drive through the narrow, shady 
road known as Love Lane. At its entrance they pass the 
engaged couple, Chloe and Dacres, riding very close 
’together, side by side. In the middle of its quiet and silent 
length they come upon Mary Neale and Mr. Sulivan Bird, 
also riding very close together. He is bending toward her 
and speaking eagerly; her eyes are cast down, and there is 
a bright flush upon her cheek. So intent is he in speak- 
ing, she in hearing, that they are not aware of the approach 
of the carriage until it is close upon them; the wheels make 
but little sound on the grass-grown surface of the little- 
used road. But now the heads that have been so close 
together fly asunder with a ludicrously quick movement. 
Young Bird straightens himself in the saddle; Mary looks 
away; they draw their horses to either side of the road to 
let the carriage pass between. As they turn to salute those 
in the carriage confusion reigns in both their faces. It has 
been rendered the greater by Mr. Dyke, who had been 
busy talking to his wife, having been unable to restrain a 
loud ‘‘ Hallo!'’'’ as he looked up and became aware, sud- 
denly, of the little idyl before him. Mrs. Dyke is on 
Mary^s side, and, as she passes by, her big eyes are fixed 
on Miss Neale with a look of stony severity. Mr. Dyke, as 
he passes. by, gives young Bird a little nod as charged with 
meaning as the famous nod of Lord Burleigh; it is not 
merely a friendly recognition, but distinctly deprecatory, 
and congratulatory and encouraging as well. His smile, 
too, says a great deal. “ Sorry to have disturbed you, my 
dear fellow! Can not help being amused! Wish you joy!^^ 
He also bends forward and bids the coachman drive on 
faster. 

‘‘ A pretty scene to have witnessed !^^ cries Mrs. Dyke. 

Very!^^ says John Dyke, with a chuckle; “ quite 
idyllic. 

‘‘You know what I mean. A very disagreeable and an- 
noying thing to have witnessed. It may be only a flirta- 
tion; but it looks more than that; it looks as if matters had 
gone further than that.^^ 

“ A good way!’'’ says the collector, with another chuckle. 

“But it must go no further. You must write to the 
lieutenant-governor at once, and have that foolish boy re- 
moved from here. It would serve him right if they sent 


190 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

him to Banda; but wherever they send him to, they must 
send him away from here. What will Lady Bird say?’^^ 

I am not going to part with a nice young fellow like 
Bird— 

I shall be sorry to part with him, too. But he must 
not be allowed to make such a mesalliance, while he is 
under us. What will Lady Bird say?^^ 

“ Lady Bird! Why, old Bird is the son of a linen-draper 
in Cheapside. The Neales are gentlefolk on both sides. 
I do not see the mesalliance.^^ 

“ He is in the service; his uncle a member of council. 
Her father an indigo- plan ter. They have no rank, no 
position — they are not in the list — (of precedence, she 
meant). 

“ She is a deuced handsome girl.^^ 

‘‘ That is all you men think of — 

‘‘ And clever and well-mannered besides. A perfect 
lady in all her ways, and sits a horse splendidly. Sings 
and plays better than common. 

“Oh, yes; she is good enough looking, and plays and 
sings well enough. But that makes no difference.’^ 

“Bird will have to search far for another girl like her; 
and if he is reallv in love with her, and she cares for 
him — ” 

“ She’ll swear she does,” snorts Mrs. Dyke. 

“ The best thing he can do is to marry her. I would 
rather help him than hinder him. ” 

This shows how strong an impression Mary Neale had 
made on him; Mr. Dyke is very little in the way of oppos- 
ing the wishes of his wife. 

“ And, after what we have seen, I certainly hope that it 
is not a mere flirtation.” 

I do not think I am to blame. How could I know 
that matters had gone so far? Sulivan Bird has been out 
in camp most of the time since they arrived. . They always 
give trouble in a place — these young women. She is very 
clever, as you say, and has drawn him on. Men are such 
fools. But I shall lose no more time now. ” 

They have arrived at the band-stand. 

“ Seriously, I do care for you very much. Miss Neale. 
I love you. Say you will marry me. Do.” 

These were the words the young man had spoken and 
Mary heard when Mr. Dyke’s “ Hallo!” fell upon their 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 


191 


ears. IN’o^wonder the heads had flown apart so suddenly. 
Younff Bird had not been talking to Mary, as he so often 
did, about his home. 

‘‘ I was very unhappy for the first six or seven years after 
I was sent to England. But then my mother came home 
for good, and I do not suppose any fellow Yver had so jolly 
a time of it as I had after that. Ours was a most delight- 
ful home. I have heard other people remark it. My 
mother made it so. She seemed to carry happiness about 
with her. She is so sweet and kind and gentle. 

Mary looks with great pleasure on the young fellow^s 
homely featured, but bright and cheerful, face. 

“ And yet she is very hvely and full of fun also. Shall 
we go through Love Lane, Miss Neale 

‘‘Yes; if you like — 

“And she is so wonderfully pretty, too,^^ goes on the 
young fellow, excitedly. “ And so young-looking. To 
look at her you would never think she had been so long in 
India. She is equally young in spirit. She was like one 
of ourselves — ^her children, I mean. Entered into all our 
amusements. She was our chief friend and confidante. 
How devotedly she nursed us when we were ill. It would 
be most delightful if you and she could meet and know one 
anqtheiv Miss Neale. 

“ I should like it very much, Mary is about to say. 
She has been lounging easily in her saddle, and smiling on 
him with beaming eyes. But the words are left unsaid; 
she draws herself up; her cheeks begin to glow; she casts 
down her now troubled eyes as he bends nearer to her, and 
says: 

“ Could not you and I get married. Miss Neale? It 
would be so jolly. 

Her laugh is not so light as she means it to be, as she 
exclaims: 

“Why, you are imitating the famous Frenchman who 
said, ‘ A sudden thought strikes me. Let us swear eternal 
friendship.^ A sudden thought strikes me; let us be mar- 
ried. It is more amusing.-’^ 

“ I know you think because I am always laughing and 
joking that I can not be serious; but I am serious now — 
most serious — says the youthful administrator, eagerly. 
“ I know you look on me as a boy, but I am four years 
older than you are. And, from my being in the service, it 


192 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


does not matter how young I marry. Seriously, I do care 
for you very much. Miss Neale. I wish you would say you 
will marry me. Do. 

Then had come the interruption. When the carriage, in 
obedience to Mr. Dyke^s kindly orders, has driven rapidly 
away, the riders bring their horses together again. 

‘‘ I can not take what you have just said seriously — 

But you must. ^ ^ 

“ No, I can not. Jam talking seriously. Only as a joke. 
We must pass it by.^^ 

I understand,^’ he says, dolefully. ‘‘ But — ” 

‘‘ Do not distress me by saying any more. I think the 
husband should be a good deal older than the wife; I like 
old men. You may take that as a reason.” 

“ I am awfully sorry.” 

‘‘ You must not be so, for my sake. And now, like the 
Frenchman, let us swear eternal friendship.” 

But it was easy to see that' this was a very forced effort 
at playfulness on her part, and that it did not tend to 
cheer him up in the very least. 

They have got to the end of the green and shady and 
secluded Love Lane, and are out on the noisy, dusty high- 
way. 

Ohloe and Dacres come galloping up behind them. 

‘‘You have paid me a very great compliment,” says 
Mary, hastily. “ One that I feel most deeply. I like you 
very much as a friend. I am grieved to have caused you 
any pain or disappointment.” 

And so ended Mary Neale’s second proposal of marriage. 
While they are at the band, to which they also were wending 
their way, Mrs. Dyke, to Mary’s surprise, sails up and 
asks them to come and lunch with her the next day. Mary 
would much rather not, but, as Mrs. Dyke says that she 
has asked Percy Dacres, and Ohloe is therefore eager to go, 
she does not like to refuse. 

“ How kind of Mrs. Dyke to ask us to meet Percy to- 
morrow,” cries Ohloe, when they are on their way home. 

“ I do not understand it,” says Mary. 

They form a small party of four at luncheon, for Mr. 
Dyke is, of course, away at his office. Mrs. Dyke is 
majestically bland and loftily pleasant. After sitting 
awhile at one end of the huge and handsomely furnished 
drawing-room, after lunch, Mrs. Dyke says to Mary, and 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 193 

glancino; at the other couple, who are at the other end of 
the apartment — wonderful time of love-making! — ^ 

“ 1 dare say your sister and Mr. Dacres would like to he 
left quite alone. Engaged couples never reflect how much 
they will see of one another after they are married. Shall 
we , go out into the veranda,. Miss Neale and she sails out 
of the room as majestically as an old three-decker, and 
with as great a spread of canvas. 

After they have talked a httle about some flowers in the 
veranda, Mrs. Dyke says, suddenly, 

“ As a-friend of his mother^s. Miss Neale " — acquaint- 
ance would have been nearer the truth — I must ask you 
if you are engaged to Mr. Bird.-’^ 

“lamnot.^^ 

The words come forth of themselves, before Mary has 
time to take any thought of the matter, to consider whether 
the question is a proper one to be put to her, a proper one 
for her to answer. 

‘‘ From what I saw yesterday, and from Mr. Bird being 
so. young, and from you yourself being new to the country, 
and not understanding the social arrangements out here, I 
think I ought to speak to you on the subject, in case Mr. 
Bird does propose to you. You will understand. Miss 
Neale, that an engagement between Mr. Bird and yourself 
w^ould not be agreeable to Mr. Bird^s relations and friends."’^ 
‘‘ I beg your pardon,^^ says Mary, flushing, her utter 
astonishment overpowering every other emotion. 

“ You will understand that it is only people who are in 
the service in India who have any social position — who are 
really in society. It would be considered derogatory for 
any one in the service to marry out of it, more especially 
in the case of a gentleman in the civil service, like Mr. 
Bird. So, you see, as your father is an indigo-planter, and 
not in the service — 

“ He is not in society,^ ^ says Mary, in that excessively 
quiet tone of voice that denotes excessive anger. 

“ Oh, of course, he is received in society, as you see here; 
but mere social intercourse is a different thing from mar- 
riage. You know in England people of different classes 
mix together, more or less, socially, wbo would not dream 
of intermarrying. The aristocracy do not intermingle their 
blood with that of the manufacturing class. 

Mrs. Dyke held up her hand. §he saw that Mary was 


194 


THE TOUCH^TOKE OF PEEIL.' 


about to speak, and marked her sparkling eyes, her com- 
pressed lips, and whitening cheek. 

“ Pray do not be angry. I am not saying anything 
against your father, personally, mind. It would have been 
the same if he had been any other indigo-planter. It is a 
matter of classes. I am not saying anything about your- 
self personally— it would have been the same with regard 
to any other young lady in the same position. 

“ Thank you!^^ says Mary, with mocking gratitude, and 
dropping a little courtesy — ‘‘I have only to observe that 
my father is, by birth and education, as good a gentleman 
as any one here. And there can be nothing derogatory in 
his work, or he would not be engaged in it. Mr. Bird has 
told me all about his people. His family is respectable 
enough. There is nothing in our respective positions that 
need prevent our being engaged. 

He is in the civil service, gasps Mrs. Dyke. 

“ That makes no difference — none whatever. 

“ And his mother is Lady Bird.^^ 

Mary smiles. 

“ She would never consent to it.*^' 

‘‘ That would be a matter to be considered, of course. 
Perhaps I think she would. 

“ Hever.^^ 

“You had no business to address me at all on the sub- 
ject, says Mary, drawing herself up — ‘‘ least of all in the 
manner you have done. I can not allow you to discuss the 
question in all its bearings. You may think there are 
many other reasons why Mr. Bird and I should not be en- 
gaged. You mentioned one, which you consider all suffi- 
cient, before I had time to stop you. How could I im- 
agine that any one would say such a thing to me? With 
regard to that one I have told you that I consider it no 
bar whatsoever to our engagements^ 

“ Then you will accept himP^s 

“ I only say that I consider my father social position 
no bar to my being engaged to Mr. Bird. I should now 
like to return to the drawing-room. 

Foiled on this side Mrs. Dyke determines to see what she 
can do on the other. It was a case of emergency. She 
must lose no time. She asks Colonel Monk ahd Sulivan 
Bird to dinner the very next day. When the Friar and her 


THE TOUCHSTONE OP PERIL. 


195 


husband have settled themselves down to a game at ecarte 
she says to Bird, 

\ ‘ Let us go outside. The nights are so beautiful now. 
The moon is at her full.^^ 

The air is balmy, the moonlight splendid. It frosts the 
trees with silver. It streams across the beautiful avenue 
of sheeshum-trees along which they are walking with magic 
effects of light and shade; falls in shimmering showers 
through the interlacing boughs. 

‘‘ I have just heard,-’^ says Mrs. Dyke, “ that the assist- 
ant superintendentship of the Doon will soon be vacant."’^ 
Will it?'’^ says the young representative of the majesty 
of England, eagerly. I should like to get it, awfully. 

‘‘ There is no reason why you should not, with your in- 
terest and ours; we should do our best. 

“ Oh, thank you.^' 

‘‘ You know that both my husband and myself take the 
greatest interest in your welfare. And that reminds me. 
There is something that concerns your future happiness 
very much about which I wished to speak to you. I do so 
as your friend, as your mother’s friend. She would ex- 
pect it of me. It was about your proposing to Miss 
Neale.” 

“ I have proposed to her.” 

“ W^hat!” exclaimed Mrs. Dyke, in tragic tones, stop- 
ping short, and sweeping round the vast circumference of 
her dress — those were the days of crinoline and she was a 
big woman — so as to face him. 

‘ ‘ I have proposed to her. ” 

“ When.^” in trembling accents. “ To-day? This morn- 
ing? They were with me yesterday afternoon.” 

“ No. The day before yesterday. When you came upon 
us in Love Lane.” 

“ I suppose she has referred you to her mother?” 

“No; she has refused me.” 

“ Kef used you!” 

“ Yes; point blank.” 

The moment their guests have departed and they are 
alone Mrs. Dyke says to her husband, 

' “ He was proposing to her in Love Lane. ” 

“ Was he? and quite right, too, not to throw away such 
a chance of securing a nice wife,” 


196 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

I do not know that she would make a better wife than 
any other girl. But she has refused him. 

“ Refused him! I aiii very sorry. Why?^^ 

‘‘ He did not say. It must be because she lost her heart 
to Hacres. But when he is married she will recover. I 
think Bulivan Bird must go to the Boon. It would be 
safest.'’^ 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A HINDOO AND A MOHAMMEDAN ANTI-ENGLISH MEETING. 

Men sitting out in the open sit in a circle; hence the 
shape of so many of the buildings of the world, from the 
old Druidical circles to the Coliseum. A circle of men sit 
in a remote and lonely spot on the oosur, or salt- covered 
plain, many miles in extent, that lies on one side of Haji- 
gunje. This is a very common sight in the neighborhood 
of town or village, and generally indicates the holding of 
the. old immemorial social court of the ‘‘ punchayut,^^ 
when the chosen five adjudicate on some breach of caste or 
guild law, some monetary difference, some matrimonial 
difficulty; but that is held in close and convenient spots, 
not in distant and lonely places; near roads, and not far 
from them. Then a punchayut does not throw out scouts; 
and at a punchayut there is much speaking,' while here a 
deep silence reigns. There is something very different in 
hand here from the ordinary every-day business of a pun- 
chayut. Around the ring, from hand to hand, passes a 
lotah, or brass drinking-vessel, over which each man re- 
peats a formula in low tones, low from cautiousness, low 
from deep emotion; for he is swearing a terrible oath on 
the most sacred Ganges water which the vessel contains. 
But now there is an interruption. One man refuses to take 
the lotah. • 

Xo; I have come to warn you and not to join you. " 

It is the old subahdar, old Bhola Misr, who speaks. It 
is his son. Colonel Monk^s orderlj?", who is pressing the ves- 
sel on him. 

“ Xo; I will not take it; I will not pass it on. I am not 
such a scoundrel as to prove unfaithful to my salt; I am 
not such a fool as to throw away my means of livelihood. 
You have lost your senses, You are rushing on to your 
own destruction.^^ 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


197 


We will destroy them. 

“ Fools! you know not their craft and power. They will 
grind you to powder. 

“ What stops the lotah cries a man with a peculiarly 
deep, guttural voice, rising from anothei>part of the circle 
and coming up to the spot. 

‘ ‘ Bhola Misr will not take the oath. He is disputing about 
it. Forbidding us. 

“ Disputing! We have not come here to dispute, but to 
take the oath. Who brought him?'’^ 

“ His son, Matadeen.^’ 

“ On his head be the punishment. Perchance he will 
miss his way going home to-night.-’^ 

“ If you do not swear they* will kill me,"’"’ whispers the 
son to his father. “ I know they will. Throw me down 
a well. I shall never get home to-night. You must 
swear. 

“Give him the lotah !^^ command's the man with the 
deep voice, a common Sepoy, but a Brahmin of the highest 
caste. They force the vessel into Bhola Misr^s reluctant, 
trembling hands, and make him repeat the short but terri- 
ble formula. He heaves a deep sigh — 

“ God knows what evil fortune has overtaken us,"’^ he 
says, in a broken voice. 

“ You are fond of these English, Bhola Misr. But if 
you betray our secret to them, m’&y the curse of holy moth- 
er Ganges fall upon you. May you be cursed in your ris- 
ing up and your sitting down; in house and byre; may the 
curse of sickness, of leprosy, of blindness, be upon you; on 
you and your children; may they die before you, and no 
son of yours survive to perform your funeral rites. 

Poor Bhola Misr cowers down as these words fall upon 
him from above. They sink into Ms soul. It takes a full 
hour for the vessel to perform the round of all the three 
rings of the circle. Then the men separate and return to 
their lines by different ways and by twos and threes. The 
English people were gathered round the band-stand, laugh- 
ing and tallang. 

The long upper chamber in the house of the brother of 
the nuwab of Hajigunje, in which the nautch took place, is 
again to-night filled with people. We see the same figures 
on the dais at the end of it; the slender frame of the young 


198 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

nuwab, the burly form of the jemadar, Sufder Jung. ' It 
need not surprise us to see seated by the side of the noble 
scions of the house of Delhi, Mrs. Dykes's butler, Amir 
Ali. The distinction of ranks is not so sharply marked in 
the East as with us. There is nofc the same ditference be- 
tween the upper and lower classes in education and culture, 
in manners and customs, habits and dress. There is not 
the same difference in elaborateness of living. The rich 
Hindoo banker or land-owner will eat the same simple mess, 
out of a brass dish, laid on the earth, with bare head and 
nothing but a loin-cloth on, just as a plowman does. Arid 
community of caste or religion overrides all social distinc- 
tions. In the Moslem mosque prince and peasant stand 
side by side. In the housfe of God norie is before another 
nor any below another; in his eyes all are equal. Behold 
an encampment of the faithful. It is the hour of evening 
prayer. The true believers stand shoulder to shoulder as 
they turn their faces toward the sacred shrine, master and 
servant, camel-rider and camel-driver, horseman and 
groom. And at the evening meal master and servant may 
dip their hands into the same dish. But apart from all 
tliis, Amir Ali^s position in the house of the local ruler and 
monarch, Mr. Dyke, was an influential as well as lucrative 
one. It was one which rendered him a most useful mem- 
ber of the great conspiracy. And, above all, he was a 
Suyud, a descendant of the Prophet, on whom be peace. 

But this is no festive gathering. The assembly sits in 
silent rows facing the dais. They seem to be listening to 
an address. It is Zulfikar Ali Khan who speaks. He is 
standing by the side of the dais clad in a green long coat, 
and has a green turban on his head; a long rosary hangs 
around his neck, he has another in his hand. His tall, 
thin frame is drawn up to its full height. His large black 
eyes, his long, thin, handsome face, are full of emotion, 
but he speaks in quiet, subdued tones: 

A7id hill them wherever ye find them, and turn them ‘ 
out of that whereof they have dispossessed yoxi.' These 
are the words of the Prophet, may his name be exalted. 
And in the chapter of the Holy Book which is entitled 
‘ War ^ it is commanded, ‘ When ye encounter the unhe- 
lievers, strike off their heads until ye have made a great 
daughter among them; and bind them in bonds,’ And 
in the last chapter which was revealed, and which the 


THE TOUCHSTGHE OF PERIL. 199 

Prophet, may his name be blessed, declared was revealed 
entire, it is enjoined: ‘ Kill the idolaters loheresoever ye 
shall find them, mid tahe them, and besiege them, and lay 
10 ait for them in every convenient place.* These are the 
very words of the Koran, the precious, tjie revelation of 
the will of God, the All-Wise, the Merciful. Who are the 
unbelievers? Who are the idolaters; the infidels? The 
Koran, the pure, itself tells us. The Christians and ttie 
Jews. Here is its declaration with regard to the former: 
‘ They are surely infidels who say. Verily God is Christ, 
the son of Mary.* ** 

A thrill of horror goes through the assembly. “ The in- 
famous sons of dogs,^"' cries one from the midst of it. 

And with regard to the latter it is written in the chap- 
ter which was the last one revealed: ^ The Jeios say Ezra 
is the Eon of God, and the Christians say Christ is the 
Son, of God. This is their saying in their mouths; they 
imitate the sayings of those who were unbelievers in former 
times. May God resist them.* And ye know the chapter 
of the volume held equal in value to a third of the wisdom- 
giving book, the chapter entitled, ^ The Declaration of the 
Unity of God.^ He pauses. He then recites in slow and 
solemn tones, ‘ Say God is one Ggd: the eternal God; he 
begetteth mot, neither is he begotten; and there is not any 
one like unto him.* ** 

All the heads are bent in reverence, as is that of Zulfikar 
Ali himself. Then he raises it, and throws it back, and 
his voice sweeps over the assembly in a sudden gust. 

And these Christian unbelievers say that there is not 
one God, but three Gods; that God begetteth and is begot- 
ten; that Jesus Christ is like unto him, his Son and his 
equal. * * 

And as a sudden gust makes the billows heave, and the 
trees of the forest bend and tremble, so is the assembly 
agitated now. A sudden movement runs through it: a 
sound, like the sound of the sea or the forest, rises from it. 
Then the hoarse murmur takes articulate form. Dogs 
— pigs infidels enemies of the Prophet — ■ 
“ antagonists of God. " 

Zulfikar Ali Khan raises from the edge of the dais a 
Koran, beautifully bound, a royal volume, and holds it in 
his hand, taking care not to let that hand sink below the 
level of his waist. 


200 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

“ We are enjoined to fight against the infidel. Ye know 
what it is to keep the fast of the Eamadhan in the summer 
months here, to let no drop of water weli^your lips between 
sunrise and sundown; and yet it is declared that it is more 
meritorious to defend the territories of the Moslem for one 
night than fast two months. How great is the merit of 
the pilgrimage to the holy shrine: what dangers and diffi- 
culties will not men encounter in order to accomplish it. 
And yet God, the beneficent, hath declared, in the chapter 
of punishment, that the giving drink to the pilgrims and 
the visiting of the holy temple are not equal in merit to 
fighting for his religion. The sword is the key of heaven. 
He who dieth fighting for the faith entereth into Paradise, 
and hath a never-ending reward. Listen, ‘ And those who 
fight in defense of God^s true religion — he will lead them 
into Paradise of which he hath told them.’ Lead them into 
the Jannat al Naem, whose fioor is of purest musk; where 
the silver bells hanging from the sweet-scented trees are 
shaken by the soft breeze proceeding from the throne of 
God; whose stones are pearls; a land of amenity and de- 
light, where dwell the- black-eyed houris; a land of fruit 
and fiowers and abundant shade, of crystal streams and 
soft, cool air. For us, all there is one day of death, and 
one only. On that day we leave house and home, wife and 
child, silver and gold. A day of loss. How good if we 
can make it a day of gain. He who fighteth doeth a 
meritorious act and shall have high reward : he who fighteth 
not committeth a crime and shall receive grievous punish- 
ment. It shall he no crime in the hlind, neither shall it 
he a crime in the lame, neither shall it he a crime in the 
sich,^ if they fight not, hut in them alone.’ The command 
is laid upon us all. Shall we fight?^^ 

There is a low, deep murmur of assent. 

‘‘ Haye no fear. ‘ God is your Lord and he- is the best 
helper.’ Again, ‘ God will not grant the unbelievers means 
to prevail over the faithful.’ His promises are sure. 
What God saith that will he do. ‘ 0 true believers, if ye 
assist God by fighting for his true religion, he will assist 
you against your enemies; and will set your feet fast: hut 
as for the infidels, let them perish; and their works shall 
God render vain, ’ Therefore, 0 true believers, obey with 
alacrity and without fear the commands of God, the All- 
powerful, the All- wise, the King of the day of judgment — ■ 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 201 

* Wage war against such of the infidels as are near you; 
and lei them find severity in you ; and know that God is 
with those that fear him.^ ” 

Such was a portion of one of the addresses of Zulfikar 
Ali Khan, while engaged in preaching the Jehad, or Holy 
War. 


CHAPTER XXYL 

THE DARK CLOUD. 

It is now May, and the evil part of the Indian year has 
come. The hot weather may be said to begin from the 
time of the vernal equinox, when the balance has turned 
against the cooling night and in favor of the fiery day. All 
through March the west winds have been blowing stronger 
and stronger. But the earth is still covered with the great 
wheat harvest, and this cools the air and shelters the ground 
from the sun. But in the first fortnight of April this 
covering is swept away, as it were, with a jerk. The fiery 
shower now sinks into the earth.' The western winds rush 
in upon the land like a troop of devils. They start with 
fiaming wings from the pandemonium of the western 
desert, gathering and giving forth heat as they fly o^er the 
burning land. The earth is now one vast storehouse and 
reservoir of heat, to remain so until Heaven shall send down 
its cataracts to cool it. The grass is withered, the flower- 
garden a wilderness. The whole countryside is now one 
vast, dry, brown fallow; the very abomination of desola- 
tion. Heat and light and dust now usurp the day. Kow 
come the eight or nine hours of strict confinement to the 
house. The light and heat are tyrannical. They hold the 
land like an enemy. They have to be fled from, hidden 
from. The house haS'to be closed and barricaded against 
them. You shelter yourself behind thick screens of scented 
grass, aflixed to all the western doors, which are kept con- 
stantly wetted so that the fiery blasts may be cooled in rush- 
ing through them. Damp and darkness are now joy. 
Move the window curtain aside just a little and peep out 
now at the strange appearance of the world without! The 
trees are like burning bushes; The light permeates them; 
they cast no dark shSiows, but only a little dim, brown 
shade. The white road gleams like a pathway of silver. 


202 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

The pillar of light moving along it is simply a native close- 
wrapped in his long, white sheet. The excess of light 
blurs the scene; limits the view. Now the atmosphere is 
white like molten silver; now, as the dust is swept up into 
it, of a lurid red. Whirlwinds sweep madly by. The 
natives believe that these are caused by devils in their 
whirling dance over the surface of the land; that if you 
could only manage to throw certain things into the midst 
of one of them the demon would show himself. And, in- 
deed, were you forced to be out in the open air at this fore- 
noon hour, the burning marl and the fiery cope of heaven 
might well remind you of Milton^s hell; you might well 
think these lurid whirlwinds, big and small, held imps and 
devils; that yonder lofty, dusky one, moving majestically 
across the plain, held the towering form of the mighty 
Satan himself. 

The old Indian, whose powers have been subdued to the 
climate, enjoys these midday hours. The two sisters, fresh 
from the outdoor life of England, full of English vigor, 
find the long hours of confinement in the dark, dank house 
very wearisome. Mrs. Neale delights in the deep calm 
and quiet, the enforced seclusion. Mr. Neale, too, has 
come to like them. The air from the grass screens is cool 
and scented, and, clad in your lightest garments, you 
breathe at every pore. Thus clad, Mr. Neale is lying back, 
in luxurious ease, in a long arm-chair, with a novel in his 
hand, a cigar between his lips, in his darkened room. It 
is the acme of the doles far niente. His peaceful ease is 
suddenly and permanently broken. The young lad, young 
Graham, comes in with some papers for him to sign. As 
Mr. Neale is doing so the lad observes, 

“ Sir, they say in bazaar that Sepoys at Meerut mutiny, 
and kill many ofiicers and ladies and march to Delhi. 

“ What!^^ says Mr. Neale, sitting lip. 

The lad repeats what he has said. 

“ When?^" 

“ Last evening. 

Mr. Neale expresses no astonishment that the news 
should have traveled so fast and reached the bazaar first. 
It is often so. 

“ It may be a false rumor, he says, as indifferently as 
he can, and the lad retires. Then Mr. Neale jumps up and 
paces the room. There comes over him a full and sudden 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OE PERIL. 203 

sense of what this news may mean. He sees, he feels, he 
knows, what is going to occur. It often happens tlius. 
In the first moment of excitement the course of events 
flashes upon us; we see it with the eye; we judge more 
surely then than afterward when the intellect is burdened 
with events and circumstances, and the feelings distracted 
by hopes and fears. Delhi in the hands of the rebels: he 
sees at once what that may imply. Delhi, with all its 
memories and associations; Delhi, the fortress city, with 
the citadel palace within its encircling walls; Delhi, with 
the Mogul king still seated upon his throne. What a rally- 
ing-point for disaffection. Here was what might turn the 
mutiny of a few soldiers into a national rebellion. Here 
was what would supply the whole native army with induce- 
ments and sanctions for a complete transfer of its allegi- 
ance; inducements moral and material. He goes to the 
window and looks out on the killing sunshine, the burning 
earth, the fiery blasts; he looks out on the flat, open coun- 
try, with its huge distances, its teeming population, which 
may soon be hostile; it is through all that he and his may 
have to flee with their lives in their hands. Soon may the 
billows be raging around them, and how far off does the 
land of safety seem! Here at Hajigunje are half a dozen 
Englishmen, and they have half a dozen women to defend. 
Then his thoughts settle at home. What dangers may 
threaten his wife and daughters; against what may he have 
to try and defend them, he their sole protector? He 
clinches his hands. 

I wish to God we had not got them out this year,^^ he 
cries. 

But he waits until the usual hour of going out, and then 
orders his horse, and, desiring a servant to tell Mrs. Neale 
that he is going in for a game at rackets, rides in fast to 
Hajigunje. 

He finds old Pet^ Monk and John Dyke and Percy 
Dacres and Sulivan Bird seated outside the racket-court in 
their flannels, sipping ' their brandy-and- water, while the 
coolies wave Hand-punkas over them. They have just 
finished a set. 

‘‘ Come to play, Neale ?^' 

‘‘No; only to look on.-’^ 

“ Have a cigar. 

“ And a brandy-and-soda.^^ 


S04 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

Mr. Neale waits until tlie man wlio lias brought him the 
cigar-case, and the man who has brought him a light, and 
the man who has brought him the brandy-and-soda have 
all retired, and then he asks. 

Have you heard anything about this rumor in the 
bazaar? 

“ No — what rumor?’ ^ 

“ That the Sepoys at Meerut have mutinied and killed 
many of their officers and marched off to Delhi. ” 

“ No— good God!” 

“ What!” 

“ It can not be true!” 

“ Marched to Delhi!” 

There is a silence. They all know the import of those 
tidings, if true. They all have friends or relations at 
Meerut or at Delhi— old comrades, brothers and sisters. 

“ J thought there was something curious in the look and 
manner of the people in my court, to-day,” says Dyke. 

They begin to discuss the news, but they see that the 
attention of the natives around them has been attracted by 
the sudden change in their easy, careless talk and man- 
ner. 

‘‘ We had better say nothing more about it just now,” 
says Monk. “We shall hear about it to-morrow morning. 
It may be a mere canard. ” 

Neale does not mention what he has heard to his wife or 
daughters that evening. The next morning he rides in to 
Hajigunje again, to the post-office first, and then to the 
coffee-shop. In the veranda of the mess-house, by the side 
of the chota hazree table, are gathered together the same 
men we have seen there on two former occasions. But not 
now do we look on happy, joyous, careless faces. The 
news that, speeding forth from Meerut the day before, was 
to fall with such heavy weight on the hearts of the English 
people throughout the land, to be the prelude of such loss 
and woe, had reached them. Not now are they discussing 
the cheering intelligence of the arrival of two very pretty 
girls from England. This is not news that gives pleasure 
and raises happy anticipations, but news that causes pain 
and horror, gives rise to' dread forebodings. As Colonel 
Monk reads out the details of what had occurred at Meerut 
on the Sunday evening but two days before, the horrors of 
that witches’ or devils’ Sabbath, the hearts of the men boil 


( . 

THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 205 

within them with rage or melt within them with pity. As 
he reads out the sentences describing the murder and brutal 
mutilation of one but recently married and about to be a 
mother, young Bird says, in a husky voice. 

She was my cousin: I knew her from. a child. 

‘‘ But why were they allowed to march to Delhi?^^ cries 
Colonel Monk. “ They have all the artillery at Meerut, 
and the Carabineers and the Rifles, two of the finest regi- 
ments in the service. But I suppose they are after them 
by this time. I wish we were near Delhi ourselves to have 
a slap at the scoundrels. 

“ Can you trust your men, Monk?^^ asks Mr. Dyke. 

‘‘To the death.^^ And it was to the death he was to 
trust them. 

The burden of the news Mr. Neale had to. take home 
with him on that morning was heavy enough in itself. It 
was added to greatly by the thought of how it would affect 
his wife. How much would his troubles be augmented by 
her nervous fears and apprehensions. When he communi- 
cates the news terrible of course is the horror and distress 
it awakens. Women who dwelt in such fancied security 
fleeing for their lives; brutally butchered; the sanctity of 
their homes violated. Mrs. Healey’s hands are soon clasped 
tightly together; her eyes are soon overflowing with tears. 
But she seems to think and feel onty for those who have 
suffered, to have no thought of what those things might 
forebode for themselves — that they too might have to sup 
of the same cup. Mr. Neale looks at her with nervous ex- 
pectation. But she expresses no personal fears. The events 
might be taking place a thousand miles off. Mr. Neale 
retreats to his own room to smoke his after-breakfast cigar, 
with wonderment and relief. He is greatly disturbed when 
he sees his wife enter it shortly after him, as she is not in 
the habit of doing. Now he will encounter an outbreak of 
unreasonable fears, of impossible suggestions, such as he 
has of late been accustomed to on occasions of domestic 
grief and trouble. 

“ John,^^ says Mrs. Neale, “ I think we should send the 
girls away: up to the hills. 

“ Now, you must not be foolish, Ann!^^ says Mr. Neale, 
hastily. “You must not distress yourself needles^. It 
does no good. It only worries yourself and others. There 
is no need for it. You must not begin to imagine that all 


S06 THE TOUCHSTOl^E OF PERIt. 

sorts of terrible things are going to happen. You must 
not begin to say that you wish to do this and do that. You 
really must not. You must be quiet and calm and self- 
possessed.^^ 

“ I will, John, for your sake, and that of the girls. I 
only want you to consider whether it would not be better to 
send the girls away. 

“I will — I will. And Mrs. Neale quietly leaves the 
room. 

But her self-possession is sorely tried when they receive 
the details of the outbreak at Delhi, with its worse horrors, 
its total dissolution of the English power. It is a terrible 
shock to all. The quiet, easy, joyous flow of their lives is 
broken. Sorrow and anxiety and distress make sudden 
entry. The sense of security, without which there can be 
no true happiness, and wliich in their case was so curiously 
full and complete, is lost. Should the settled and accepted 
order of things be broken, should the very strong but very 
delicate fabric of English rule crumble, how terrible would 
be their condition! To be in danger of their lives, to have 
to hide and run; they who had dwelt so securely, walked 
so proudly! To be brought so suddenly face to face with 
death. The stately vessel of English rule in India, in 
which they were making their life-voyage, has been moving 
proudly over the waters with all sails set, they have all been 
so busy with their pleasures, so engrossed in the task of 
navigating her, that they liave had no thought of the hid- 
den rocks and currents; and now she has touched. Around 
them spreads the vast, inimical ocean, ready to swallow 
them up. Dark and somber to-day are the faces which 
yesterday were so bright and beaming. 

But the old, high, English self-confldence, English pride 
and English pluck, of which in these days it is not con- 
sidered proper that we should speak — but I speak of what 
I have seen, and long may these qualities continue to exist 
so that they may be spoken of — come to their aid. The 
days go by. And eacn day has its demands and calls. 
Something may happen to-morrow, but breakfast has to 
be ordered to-day. The daily routine of life with its ab- 
sorbing, soothing, obliterating influence goes on; those 
small daily personal cares which are stronger than love, 
stronger than death. Things have to be done. The officers 
go to their parade, the doctor to his hospital, the civilians 


' THE TOUmSTOKE OF PERIL* 207 

to their as usual. Mr. Neale goes on making 

his arrangements for the sowing of the indigo. Mr. Dyke 
drafts his reply to the circular of the government calling 
for information as to the breeding habits of the Gangetic 
dolphin. The land rent for the half-year begins to come 
in. Hindoo and Mohammedan poHcemcn convey Hindoo 
and Mohammedan prisoners to jail, and Hindoo Sepoys keep 
guard over them. Mr. Dyke^s word is still law. The men 
go to the swimming-bath and play rackets and billiards. 
The band plays every Friday evening as usual. Mr. Dyke 
reads the service in the church every Sunday morning. 
Dacres is going on with the furnishing of his house. The 
packages containing the china and glass, the plate and the 
linen, have arrived and have to be unpacked. The piano 
has come, and great is the chaff against Dr. Sawyer. Let- 
ters have to be written. Mary Neale goes on with her task 
of teaching her proteges. The old feeling of complete 
security and ease and satisfaction can not come back until 
Delhi is recaptured, but that must take place very soon 
now. The troops have gone forward. The vessel has 
touched, but she will soon be on her way again. Distress 
has given place to uneasiness, uneasiness to hope. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE STORM-CLOUDS DRAW NEAR. 

‘‘My dear Neale, — Oonle to the mess-house to-mor- 
row morning. Say nothing of this. Yours very truly, 

“JOH2S' Dyke, Jr. 

June , 1857.” 

When Neale reaches the mess-house, he finds assembled 
there all the men-— Englishmen — of the station, the three 
civilians, the five officers of the regiment. 

“ The Sepoys of Guderpore have mutinied/'’ says Dyke. 
“ Yesterday. 

Guderpore was another small station about fifty miles 
from Hajigunje. 

“ That does not affect us,^^ goes on Dyke, “ for the men 
have marched straight away to Delhi. They looted the 
treasury, but did no other damage; no one was killed. 
But they might have killed every one. Phillips says they 
were quite unprepared; there was great confusion; they 


208 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

had not fixed beforehand on any line of action, made no 
arrangements for the disposal of the women and children. 
I have asked you to come together in order that we may 
settle beforehand what we should do in case of a similar 
contingency arising here. 

“ Such a contingency can never arise here/^ says old 
Monk. They understand that he intends to refuse to en- 
tertain the notion that his men are likely to mutiny. 

“ By calling this meeting I do not mean to call in ques- 
tion the fidelity of your men/"’ says Dyke. 

‘‘But you do. 

“ Other regiments haye mutinied — why not yours?^^ 

‘‘ It never will.'’^ 

“ That is not the opinion of your officers.’^ 

“Which of them dares think otherwise I^Vcries the old 
man, fiercely. 

“ I think the men are ripe for mutiny, says Steele, 
quietly. 

“ How dare you say such a thing, sir! How dare you 
think such a thing, sir!^^ cries the colonel, turning round 
on him. 

“ There is a marked difference in the bearing and de- 
meanor of the men.^^ 

“Bearing and demeanor of the men! What pretty 
words !^^ 

“ And of the native officers. Old Bhola Misr is very 
much troubled. And as for the Jemadar Sufder Jung, 
while he pretends to be deeply grieved by what has hap- 
pened, he can hardly veil his insolent exultation.-’^ 

“Veil his insolent exultation! You talk like a book. 
To have been at a university teaches one fine words. But 
I will not have the loyalty of my men called in question. 
I have the fullest trust and confidence in them. If some 
people are very easily alarmed that is no reason why others 
should be,^^ and he looks at Steele in a way that makes his 
remark a directly personal one. 

“ Sir!^^ begins Steele, but Dyke stops him. 

“ This is not a time to quarrel among ourselves. You 
know, colonel,’^ he says, with an unwonted dignity of man- 
ner, “ that I hold the highest rank here. Everything here 
is under my direction and control, even the military force. 

“ I allow yOur authority and am ready to support it,^' 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


209 


replies' the colonel, drawing himself up. You represent 
the government/^ 

‘‘You see, the responsibility of the safety of this place 
and the people ih it rests on me. I must take thought for 

“ Quite so. And the best way to secure it is to trust in 
the Sepoys; not to irritate them by any show of want of 
confidence. We must not show the white feather, not even 
the tip of it,^^ with a glance at Steele. “ Let us carry our- 
selves boldly. Let us go on as if nothing had happened. 
Let us show that what has happened has not disturbed us 
in the least— that to us it will make no difference. 

“ That might have been the wisest course some time 
ago,^^ interposes Steele, “ but the mutiny has actually be- 
gun; Delhi is in the hands of the mutineers; what more do 
we want than that? It is at our very doors. This is not 
the time for bold inaction, but for bold action. Every- 
thing may now depend on who strikes first. Let us do so. 
Let us disarm the men — 

“ Eh!"’"’ said Peter Monk, his overmastering astonishment 
preventing him from saying anything more at the moment. 

All the other men stare at Steele, too; the audacity of 
the proposal had taken their breath away. 

“ The power of the Sepoys lies in the possession of their 
firearms; in their knowledge of their use. Without them 
they would be a mere mob. Let us take that power away.'’^ 

“ But how?’^ asks Neale. 

“ They would never give up their arms,^^ cry Zouch and 
Dacres. 

“What I should do,^^ says -Steele, quietly, “would be 
to remove the boxes of caps and destroy them. 

“ What a grand idea!^^ cries Neale. “ By Jove! Steele — 

“ SirT^ thunders out old Monk, as he glares at Steele; 
but his surprise and fury and indignation render speech 
very difficult, and ere he can go on, Mr. Dyke interposes. 

“We must confine ourselves to the special purpose for 
which I have called you together, he says. “That is 
simply to fix on some defensible place of rendezvous in 
case of an outbreak, no matter by whom caused. We 
must band ourselves together the moment anything hap- 
pens; that is our only chance; we ought to have some 
place to which the wpmen and children could at once re- 
sort for safety. That is all I want done for the present. 


^10 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

I had thought of my own house It would hold every one 
comfortably, and it has a terraced roof, but it would be too 
large for us to defend. The same objection applies to the 
kutcherry.-^' 

The various other houses and buildings in the place are 
passed in review. 

“ Why not let us defend ourselves in my bungalow,^^ 
says Major Zouch. “ It is not too large. I have prepared 
all the plans for converting it into a fortress,^'’ he adds, 
with modest exultation. “ I wish I had my portfolio here; 
I could run home and get it. The ditch round the com- 
pound would be deepened, and the earth from it thrown up 
so as to form a parapet over the escarp, and a glacis over 
the counterscarp. There are bastions or redans at the 
corners, with a salient between. I have drawn out the 
plans and sections of all these, I should cut down all the 
trees in the compound, so as to give a clear space for our 
fire, and with these I should make an abatis to be laid 
down along the escarp, which would also be protected with 
fraises. The ditch should be carried along across one gate- 
way, and only the other left open, and this should be pix)- 
tected by clieveaux-de-frise, or a zig-zag, or a demilune. 

“ But your bungalow has a thatched roof,'^ says Neale. 

‘‘ It would take a considerable time to carry out your 
plans, and a large force to man your fortifications,^^ says 
Steele, quietly. 

“ His proposals are quite worthy of the occasion, snorts 
Colonel Monk. 

None of the buildings, private or public, in the station, 
are found to be suited for tne purpose. 

“ I have a place at the factory that would exactly do,^^ 
says Mr. Neale, at length, “ if being out of the station 
does not matter. In fact, it was built for the very pur- 
pose; as a place of easy defense. You know ‘ the old go- 
down ^ — the place just outside my compound — the one with 
the high walls and the bastions. It is a small fort. It has 
a very strong gateway. We could hold out there for days. 

I will put some provisions into it if you like. '^ 

Like every proposal that ever was made, the first effect 
of this one is to produce objections. But there is no other 
place so suitable. The distance out is an objection, for 
when people have to run for their lives they prefer the 
place of shelter to be as near as uossible; but it is the only 


( 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OP PEEIL. 211 

objection. The place is small, and has but one entrance, 
closed by a massive gate. It is a stronghold repdy-made to 
their hand. The opinion is finally given in favor of Mr. 
Neale’s proposal. 

“ Very well, then,” said Dyke, “ that is settled. I hope 
we may not have to pay our friend Neale a sudden visit, 
but should there be a row here, the factory is to be the 
place of rendezvous; the place to which the women and 
children ” — there were some children in Hajigunje now— 
“ will be sent at once. How we men are to get there will 
depend on circumstances. And now, as friend Shakespeare 
says, ‘ let us to billiards.’ ” 

“ By the way; of course we keep this arrangement strict- 
ly to ourselves. The natives must not know of it, or we 
may find ourselves forestalled.” And soon the billiard- 
balls are clicking. 

Colonel Monk had a perfect trust in his men. But it 
was not a mere fatuous trust, bred of old age and weak- 
ness, of lethargy of mind and body, as was the case with 
so many of the venerable company’s officers in the same 
position as liimself. It was not a mere shut-the-eyes trust 
The next day he sends for old Bhola Misr and the Jemadar 
Sufder Jung. 

Poor old Bhola Misr had been in a terrible state of mind 
for the past four weeks. He was torn by contending emo- 
tions. The tumult of his thoughts and feelings had indeed 
proved almost too much for him. His knowledge of the 
conspiracy in the regiment worked within him like a can- 
cerous sore. He was distracted on this side by thoughts 
about his own future, on that by thoughts about the future 
of his sons. He was dragged this way by his fidelity to his 
salt, his loyalty to the government winch had cherished 
him and fed him, to the banner whose folds held the record 
of his services, under which he had marched so long — that 
way, not by his patriotism, not by his attachment to the 
house of Delhi — these had no place in his mind or heart — 
but by his caste feelings, his feelings of military commun- 
ity, of community of birthplace and race, by his fear of the 
Brahmin Sepoys, by his terrible oath. These emotions are 
among the strongest that can move the heart of man, and 
yet as strong as any of them was that aroused by the 
thought of the danger that hung over his kind old master, 
Colonel Monk, of his being a traitor to him. 


m 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


Colonel Monk receives the two native officers in the same 
veranda where we saw them seated at that jocund time of 
the year when our story began. After they have made 
their salutes and seated themselves, and the usual health 
inquiries have been interchanged. Colonel Monk says. 

You have heard, of course, of the mutiny of the Tenth 
regiment at Guderpore?^^ 

‘‘ We have,^^ says Bhola Misr, with unfeigned, Sufder 
Jung with pretended, sorrow. 

“The foolish scoundrels adds the latter, with well- 
simulated indignation. 

“Truly said! fools as well as scoundrels. Now I am 
well aware that my regiment is not likely to be led away by 
this evil example. But there are black sheep in every 
flock. There may be some with us. 

“ Do you know of any such?’’ he asks, abruptly. “ Of 
any who sympathize with the mutinous regiment?” 

“ Exalted one! I know of none,” says Sufder Jung, 
promptly. “ Bad characters there are in every regiment. 
But as for any sympathizers with these ungrateful scoun- 
drels of the Tenth — may their faces be blackened — I know 
of none.” 

“ What do you say, Bhola Misr?” 

“ Cherisher of the Poor!” says the old man, sorrowfully, 
“ God alone knows the secrets of men’s hearts. ” 

“ True. But we can form a judgment of what is in 
their hearts by their looks and behavior. . When I see the 
men their looks are veiled, their behavior put on, their 
words guarded. You see them continually; when they are 
free and natural; when they are ofl their guard. I there- 
fore charge you, by your allegiance to the government, by 
your friendship for me, to tell me if you have cause to sus- 
pect any of the men of being tainted with this disaffection? 
We must get rid of them. We must not let them mislead 
the others.” 

Bhola Misr moves uneasily in his chair. It is to him that 
Colonel Monk looks for the first reply. But Sufder Jung 
bursts forth, vehemently, 

“ Sir! there is no such man in this regiment. Not one 
single one. Every man here is faithful to his salt. We 
have no traitors among us. Put away such injurious 
thoughts from your mind. There is not a man in the 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIE. 213 

Tegiment who is not ready to lay down his life for you. 
Are they not as your children? You must not distrust us. 

‘‘ I ha\re the fullest trust in you and them. But men 
are foolish. Men follow one another. They are led astray 
by bad example. You must keep them from doing so. I 
look to you for infprmation. You are my eyes. Remem- 
ber, make the men remember, what a dreadful fate has 
overtaken regiments that have mutinied aforetime. 

“Son of wealth! High in place! You may place the 
fullest trust and confidence in us,^^ says Sufder Jung, the 
arch conspirator. 

“ Very well. How you may leave. 

When the fierce heat of June had commenced Colonel 
Monk declared an intention of taking a short leave, and 
going up to the hills until the rains set in. Bhola Misr 
displays a great urgency that he should carry this out. 
Colonel Monk sets down the old man^s continued harping 
on the sul^’ect tp his affectionate fussiness. The day after 
the interview just related, he, having to wait on the colonel 
on some matter of business, takes up the strain again. 

“ How terrible the heat is, sir!""^ 

“ Yes; very great. 

“ Why does not your honor go up to the hills? Your 
honor is not looking at all well.^'’ 

“ I am as well as usual, says the white-faced old man, 
laughing. “It is only that the heat is a taJclif^^ (trouble 
— discomfort). 

“ Oh, no; your honor is not looking near as well, as 
usual. You should get away from here at once,^'’ says the 
dark-faced old man, earnestly. 

“ How can I go while this disturbance lasts? I will go 
when it is over. 

“ Oh, never mind that. Go at once.^"’ 

“ Why, one would think it was a matter of life and 
death, said the colonel, laughing. 

“It maybe a matter of life and death, ” says the old 
man, significantly. Then he adds, hurriedly, “ I mean, 
sir, that this great heat is not good for English gentlemen. 
Your honor is not looking well. Why not go up to the 
hills? Do, sir,'’^ he goes on, pleadingly. 

“ I do feel the heat very much,^' says Colonel Monk; 
“ but you are too anxious about my health, old friend,^^ 
and he lays his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder. 


214 THE TOUCHSTONE OE PEEIL. 

Go at once/^ says old Bhola Misr, hoarsely. 
“ I will — as soon as the disturbance is over.^^ 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 

THESTOEMBUESTS. 

An important addition had recently been made to the 
little . English community of Hajigunje in the persons of 
Mr. and Mrs. Eorde and their two children. It may be re- 
membered that Mrs. Zouch had made mention of the joint 
magistrate, Mr. Hastings Olive, who, having lost his wife, 
had determined to go home on furlough, and, having 
broken up his house in Hajigunje, had passed the winter 
out in camp; Mr. Eorde took his place. The children had 
supplied an element hitherto wanting. He a handsome, 
manly boy, she a pretty, fairy-like girl, both gay, bright, 
well-mannered children, G uy and Ethel Eorde have become 
great favorites with every one in the station. And of these 
fair children Mrs. Eorde is the fairer mother. She is a 
large-built woman, but her face is very soft and fair and 
beautiful, with a certain child-like look. There was about 
her an exquisite atmosphere of pure womanliness. In her 
company you forgot all that was harsh and rude and ugly 
and evil, and thought only of what was soft and pure and 
sweet and holy. There was a sunshine in her looks; heaven 
breathed from, her face. 

Mr. Eorde was a good-looking, clear-headed, sound- 
hearted, high-principled English gentleman. 

Mary Neale had become great friends with Mrs. Eorde. 
She and Chloe are to go in and spend the day with her. 
Dacres had slept at the old mausoleum the night before, 
and he drives them in. They go round by the bungalow 
which is to be Chloe Neale’s first married home. It is a 
pretty little house, with a small but well-wooded compound, 
a fiower-garden, and an orchard The pyramidal roof is 
rich with the yellow of new thatch; the verandas are in- 
closed witli pretty trellis- work; there is a rustic porch. 
The furnishing of it has been nearly completed. Chloe 
claps her little hands with glee as she looks round the 
drawing-room; her face is radiant with delight; as she 
turns her eyes upon Dacres there is something in them that 
causes Mrs. Eorde, who has met them there, to withdraw 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 215 

Mary into the neighboring apartment. If she thought it 
was an appropriate moment for an embrace and a kiss she 
was not mistaken. Ohloe soon recalls them. Their pres- 
ence is needed to make her joy and triumph complete. 
They pass into the dining-room and Chloe is in ecstasies 
oyer everything; the mahogany table and the mahogany 
sideboard, of which she opens every drawer; the pretty 
china; the glittering forks and spoons. They return to 
the drawing-room. Chloe sits down to the piano, the piano 
Dr. Sawyer had purchased, and which might have been 
Mary^s, and there is an abundance of chaff about it. 
They are very light-hearted and gay. Mary looks at the 
big instrument and thinks how oddly it has taken a place 
in her life. Mrs. Forde gets the engaged couple away with 
great difficulty; they have not setSed where the ottoman 
is to be put. 

They form a very merry party at breakfast. 

‘‘ And so you have been to inspect the buggy and the 
silver teapot. Miss Ohloe,” says Mi\ Forde. 

In India, in former days, the silver teapot and the buggy 
were considered the indispensable requisites of the y(5ung 
man about to marry. 

She will have to put up with a Britannia-metal one 
and a dog-cart,’^ said Dacres. 

I prefer a dog-cart to a buggy,” cries Chloe, and I 
shall have a silver teapot, for that is to be Colonel Monks 
wedding-present; he has ordered one to be made at Delhi.” 

Then Mr. Forde leaves for his office, taking Dacres with 
him, to drop him at his bungalow. Mrs. Forde disposes of 
her household duties. The servants all have to cook and 
eat their dinner. The doors of the house are closed, the 
curtains drawn, the screens of split-bamboo let down. It 
is now the month of June, the hot winds have ceased to 
blow and can not be utilized to cool the house, the air 
quivers with the heat, but there is no other movement in 
it. This time of dead, still heat, when the sun is riding 
almost in the zenith, is one of the most oppressive periods 
in the year. Oh, for the sight of a bit of green grass! Oh, 
for the shadow of a passing cloud! Oh, for a breath of 
cool, moist air! A deathlike stillness reigns in the darkened 
house. The ladies and children are in the drawing-room, 
gathered together under the waving punka just as you 
gather together before a fire in England. Guy Forde is 


216 


THE TOUCHSTO^TE OF PERIL. 


nine years old, his sister six. Their pale faces and slender 
forms tell of an alien clime. The keen sensibility, quick 
intelligence, warmth of affection, and gentle manners, 
which endear Guy to his parents and their friends, are 
somewhat dearly purchased with loss of bodily vigor. Mrs. 
Forde calls her daughter her ‘kittle snow-drop." Both 
the children love Mary Neale very much and are dearly 
loved by her. They are now standing one on either side of 
her, while Guy i& showing her some of the pictures in his 
favorite “Robinson Crusoe. They come to one illus- 
trating the adventure with the savages who land on the 
island to hold their cannibal feast. It depicts that thrill- 
ing moment when Crusoe and Friday have got behind the 
big tree at the edge of the wood with their guns in their 
hands, while below them, on the open beach, “ nineteen of 
the dreadful wretches sat upon the ground, all huddled 
together, and had just sent the other two to butcher the 
poor Christian.-’^ Then they read how Crusoe and Friday 
fire upon the savages, and throw them into a state of con- 
sternation, and slay many of them, and deliver the captive 
Christian. Then they read how Crusoe found in one of 
the canoes a captive who was not a Christian and cut his 
bonds for him. Then Guy is all aglow with excitement as 
Mary comes to the by-him-well-known passage (the pleas- 
ure of familiarity is as great as that of novelty) and reads 
it out. “ When Friday came to him, I bade him speak to 
him and tell him of his deliverance; and pulling out my 
bottle made him give the poor wretch a dram ; which, with 
the news of his being delivered, revived him, and he sat up 
in the boat. But when Friday came to hear him speak 
and look in his face, it would have moved any one to tears 
to have seen how Friday kissed him, embraced him, hugged 
him, cried, laughed, halloed, jumped about, danced, sung; 
then cried again, wrung his hands, beat his own face and 
head, and then sung and jumped about again, like a dis- 
tracted creature. It was a good while before I could make 
him speak to me, or tell me what was the matter; but 
when he came a little to himself he told me that it was his 
father. ” Even little EtheFs face seems to imply that she 
sees Friday jumping and dancing and singing. 

“ If they had not shot at the savages and killed them - 
they would have killed and eaten Friday ^s father, cries 
Guy, excitedly, “ They killed nineteen of the savages/^ 


I 

THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 217 

^ That fact related by De Foe, with his usual marvelous 
circumstantiality, has made a deep impression on Guy. 

There are no savages in this country. Miss ISTeale?^^ 

“No, Guy,^^ says Mary. 

“ If there were any, and they came to hill my papa, I 
should shoot them if I had a gun. And' papa says he will 
give me a gun next year."’"’ 

“ That is a brave boy/" says Mrs Forde; “but I hope 
you may never have to shoot any one.-’-’ 

“I should only shoot them if they came to hurt papa or 
you/" 

“ Or me,^^ piped Ethel. 

“ Or Ethel, mother. 

“ Do not let us talk about shooting people and killing 
them, says gentle Mrs. Forde. “I hate even to think 
about such things.’’^ 

“ Only if they came to hurt papa or you, mother, per- 
sisted Guy, with whom this bit of fancy was an old and 
favorite one. “ I must shoot them then.’’^ 

“ No one is ever likely to come to hurt us, Guy,^^ answers 
Mrs. Fotde, laying her hand fondly on his shoulder. “We 
are not likely to stand in need of your services, my young 
paladin. 

“ What is a paladin, mother 

“ I will tell you another time.^’ 

Then Guy turns over the pages and gets at that other 
favorite incident, a comic one this time, of Friday being 
chased up a tree by a bear. They laugh merrily at it once 
more. The punka swings, the hours go by. Then comes 
the children's dinner, the welcome interruption of lunch. 
They return to the drawing-room once more to pass away 
the tedious hours until the sun shall have neared the hori- 
zon, withdrawn his tyrannical presence, released them from 
their confinement. No going out-of-doors for them just 
now, not even into the verandas. 

The children settle down to some quiet game. Mrs. 
Forde takes up her work. The girls take up their books. 
Chloe, leaning back in a long lounge-nhair, is soon dozing 
over hers. The swinging punka has a soporific effect. A 
servant brings in a note for Mrs. Forde. 

“ Chits are one of the peculiar features of an Indian 
station; they are continually flying about. But Mary Neale 
happening to look at Mrs. Forde while she is reading this 


^18 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

one sees that she turns deadly pale, and seems about to 
faint. 

‘‘ What is it, dear Mrs. Forde?^^ qries Mary, jumping up 
and running to her, 

“ The Sepoys have mutinied. My husband writes to say 
we must all go over at once to Mrs. Dyke^s house, and go 
on with her to your factory. 

Chloe awakens from her half doze, and seeing the agi- 
tated looks on their faces, jumps up and asks. 

What is it? What is the matterr^^ 

‘‘The Sepoys have mutinied, says Mrs. Forde, me- 
chanically. She has no thought at that moment of any 
one else but her husband, her children. 

“ Percy! Percy shrieks poor Chloe, and she would 
have sunk to the ground had not Mary caught her in her 
arms and put her into the chair; and then Chloe bursts 
into a passion of weeping that startles the children. 

“Hush! hush! my dear,^^ cries Mrs. Forde, bending 
down and soothing her. By having to take thought for 
others Mrs. Forde is awakened from her first exclusive 
thoughts concerning those nearest and dearest to tierself, 
aroused from the swoon of apprehension for their safety 
into which the news has thrown her. Though tender and 
gentle, she is brave; she has good blood in her veins. 

“ You must not give way like this. There may be noth- 
ing in it. You know the Sepoys did no harm to any one 
at Guderpore. But we must do at once what my husband 
tells us. So go with your sister and get ready, my dear; 
and I will get the children ready and order the carriage. ” 

The children are full of wonder. “Why are they going 
over to Mrs. Dyke’s house?” “Why are they going out 
when the sun is so high?” They have never been out-of- 
"doors at that hour in the hot season in the whole course of 
their lives. 

The carriage comes up. Mrs. Forde has about her all 
the cherished belongings oY her married life, all the cher- 
ished memorials of her sweet English home — pictures, 
books, likenesses, letters, things that can never be re- 
placed. She, like so many hundreds of others at that time, 
has to leave them all, never to see them again. 

For the first part of the way they have between them 
and the Sepoy lines a row of bungalows with their thickly 
wooded compounds. The uproar at the lines reaches them 


219 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

only as a gentle murmur. But when they come to an 
opening between two of the compounds it breaks on their 
terrified ears in full and sudden force. They hear the 
crackling of flames, they see a blazing roof with its leaping 
tongues of flame and eddying volumes of smoke. Chloe 
fixes her wide-open eyes upon it; horror keeps her tongue 
tied. 

What a big fire!^^ cries Guy, in great excitement. Is 
that why the people are shouting, mother?^^ 

It is the hospital, says Mrs. Forde. 

Again the thick avenue of trees and silence. The open- 
ing was a narrow one. The sight fell on their eyes and 
passed away, the sound fell on their ears and ceased, as it 
were, in a flash; seen and heard and gone; but the memory 
of it was to last forever. The road they have entered on is 
a narrow, ancient one, where the close-standing trees have 
huge stems and branches, and dense and wide-spread cano- 
pies of leaves, and perfect silence and quiet reigns along 
it. The sharp cry of the kite comes from high above to 
accentuate the silence; the little squirrels are sporting 
about under the trees. The silence and quiet continues as 
they pass along the winding avenue leading up to Mrs. 
Dyke^s house. The rumble of the wheels of the carriage 
is the only sound they hear. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE MUTINY OF THE REGIMENT. 

The usual deep midday quiet is brooding over the town 
and station of Hajigunje. Suddenly a murmur arises from 
the Sepoy lines. It deepens; gains in volume and inten- 
sity; becomes a loud roar. The two sounds have been re- 
echoed and repeated in the bazaar near the lines, have passed 
on from there to the town, where the ever-increasing vol- 
ume of sound fills the lately silent streets and squares as a 
rising river fills the empty channels by its side. The reclining 
men stand up. The sleepers awake. Crowds appear in 
the lately deserted roads and streets. Soon all is noise and 
tumult. Security and peace are about to flee from Haji- 
gunje, not to return to it for many a day to come. Like 
those of all the others in the station the doors of Colonel 
Monk's bungalow are closed; the chinks let down; the cur- 


220 THE T0T7CHST0KE OF PERIL. 

tains closed. A darkened twilight fills it; a profound quiet 
reigns throughout it. Colonel Monk is, as usual at this 
hour, reclining on his bed in his night attire, with a novel 
in his hand, which is to lead him gently on to the after- 
noon slumber. His bearer comes into the room; the fall 
of his naked feet on the thick-carpeted floor does not dis- 
turb the silence. 

Cherisher of the Poor he says, ^^the Sepoys have 
mutinied. 

Colonel MoUk leaps up. In a few minutes he has put 
on his uniform, and is galloping down to the lines, regard- 
less and unknowing of the fiery heat, the blinding glare. 

Captain Steele is seated at his rough writing-table, mak- 
ing out his company returns for the month of May just 
past, from the dictation of a naik (corporal) seated on the 
floor by his side. His man-servant comes quietly in and 
stands quietly by while Steele finishes down to the bottom 
of the page, and then blotting it, looks up and asks. 

What is it?^^ 

Exalted One! There is a tumult in the lines. The 
Sej)oys are seizing the ball ammunition. 

The monthly return is never finished. Steele conveys 
the information to Dacres. In a few minutes they have 
mounted, and are galloping down to the lines as fast as 
their horses can carry them. 

An hour, may be, has passed away. The habits of mili- 
tary discipline, personal influence, have at last prevailed. 
The men are drawn up on the parade-ground. Colonel 
Monk is seated on his chaTger in front of his regiment, 
facing it. Complete silence is at length procured. He ad- 
dresses the men, of course in their native tongue : 

“Soldiers of the Guznee Regiment,^ ^ he says, “once 
known by my own name— for you know my father 
raised it — listen to me. You know that I was born in 
tliis regiment and have lived in it all my life. We 
have passed our lives together. We have been in good 
places and in bad together. We have been together in 
many battles and campaigns. You know me as your old 
companion and friend. Listen to me. Do not lose your 
senses as have some other regiments. Do not you follow 
their evil example. I speak to you for your profit You will 
find no service so good as that of the Company. The word 
of the Company is sure. Your pay and privileges are 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


221 


secure. Do not risk the loss of them. You need not hope 
to find any other service. Do not believe what they say 
about the fewness of the English regiments. There are 
plenty more in England. They would be here very soon 
to confront and overpower the evil-doers*. Be warned. I 
speak to you for your advantage. And as to these stories 
about the government wishing to take avjay your caste by 
mixing bone-dust in the flour^ and. putting pig^s fat and 
cow^s fat on the cartridges, and such like idle tales, you 
can not be such fools as to believe them. We are the peo- 
ple of the book. You can not be made Christians by such 
means as these. You know that the government has never 
interfered in any way with your religion or your caste. 
They have no wish to do so. This regiment has been my 
home; you have been as my children; I speak to you as a 
father. Beware of this rash folly. Do not follow the ex- 
ample of the wicked and misguided men who have rushed 
on to their own destruction. Be faithful now, when others 
are unfaithful, and great will be your reward. Keep to 
the path of honor and of profit. Stray not into that of 
dishonor and of loss. Do not soil the flag under which you 
have gained such glory. My bead has grown gray during 
the years I have been with you. Do not bring disgrace 
upon it. Do not bring destruction on yourselves. 

Colonel Monk's address has evidently produced a great 
impression on the men. In the course of it there have 
been many expressions of approval and assent. And now 
at its close are heard ejaculations of “True! true!" 
“ What he says is true!" “ He would not tell us a lie!" 
“ He has been as a father to us!" . 

It is the critical moment. Kow is the equal poise of the 
balance. A Sepoy steps out from the front rank and ad- 
vances up to the colonel as if to speak to him. 

It is the Sepoy Matadeen, the son of the Subahdar Bhola 
Misr, whom we have seen acting as orderly to Colonel 
Monk. He brings his piece to the salute, lowers it, and 
shoots -Colonel Monk through the body. The ball must 
have pierced the heart, for he topples from his saddle and 
falls headlong to the ground, and his now riderless steed 
gallops wildly away to convey the news of his death to his 
house, and give the signal for its immediate plunder. The 
regiment heaves forward and breaks up into a mob. Now 
all is tumult and disorder. The shouts and yells of the 


222 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

men, the reports of the pieces fired into the air, make up a 
horrid din. To these is soon added the sharp crackling of 
flames. The regimental hospital has been set on fire. The 
huge, thatched roof burns like tinder. In a few minutes 
great clouds of smoke, great pyramids of flame, go swirling 
up into the air. There is not the ghost of a breeze to 
carry the smok^ away. It spreads out in a huge, dim 
canopy over the parade-ground, and casts a lurid shadow 
upon it. 

“ Escape, sir, while this confusion continues,^ ^ cries 
Bhola Misr to Steele. Do not lose a minute.’’^ 

Steele runs for the place where he and Dacres have left 
their horses, and gets there safely. But he does not like to 
ride away, as Dacres will also probably make for the same 
spot. He sees that he is the object of attention to a group 
of Sepoys, but still he delays. He mounts his horse, but 
still he waits. 

“You had better not remain here any longer, sir!’^ says 
his syce. 

He has his eye on the group of men who are edging to- 
ward him. He hears a shout; he sees Dacres running to- 
ward him, hotly pursued by a dozen Sepoys; the other men 
make a dart forward to cut him off. Steele snatches the 
reins of Dacres^’s horse from the groom ^s hand and dashes 
forward, too; well is it for Dacres he i§ young and active; 
he springs into the saddle, and the two young men gallop 
across the parade-ground amid a storm of bullets, and a 
kick-out of the hind-leg shows that Dacres’s charger has 
not escaped untouched. They pull up in the fields by the 
side of the parade-ground, behind the shelter of a group of 
trees. They look back at the lines. 

“ The poor old colonel, says Steele, softly, rubbing the 
end of his nose with the hilt of his sword. 

“ Damn the black, ungrateful scoundrels,^ ^ cries Dacres, 
fiercely. 

The hospital is burning furiously, the canopy of smoke 
keeps spreading out. 

“The girls are. in here to-day,^’ says Dacres. 

“ Who?^^ cries Steele, straightening himself in his saddle. 

“ The Miss Neales. 

“Here! Where?^"_ 

“ They have come in to spend the day with Mrs. Forde,^’ 

“We must go there at once,^^ 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF FERIL. 223 

‘‘ The whole place is up/^ says Dacres, gloomily, look- 
ing at the dense throng of men before the lines, at the 
throngs of men along the road which runs from the lines 
to the town, the murmur of sound along which connects 
the uproar at the lines with the uproar in the town. 

“The more reason why we should go there at once/^ 
cries Steele. 

He puts spurs to his horse,- and now for the first time re- 
grets that strict economy which circumstances and not his 
natural disposition, as the people of Hajigunje have 
thought, have imposed upon him, and which has prevented 
him from being better mounted. However, one must ride 
the steed one has, and so he puts the spurs well into the 
old horse’s flanks, and gets his best speed out of him. 
They get round the end of the lines furthest from the town. 
They pass through quiet Love Lane, where the noise which 
has pursued them changes from the roar of the angry sea 
to the murmur of the peaceful, prattling brook. How 
eagerly do they try t^ catch sight of the lofty ridge-line of 
Mr. Forde’s bungalow. There it is; no flames, no smoke. 
Ho plundering, murdering crowd in the compound ; every- 
thing quiet and still about the house. There seem to be no 
servants about — they are in fact all gathered together in a 
distant corner of the grounds which commands a view of 
the Sepoy lines. But at length they espy the gardener 
moving about in his withered 'parterre, and call to him. 
They are mad with impatience, as he saunters slowly up to 
them. 

“ Is the Mem Sahib at home?” 

“ At home?” 

“ Yes-^within?” 

“Ho.” 

“ Where has she gone to?” 

“ She has gone out.” 

“ D — n you — where to?” 

“ To the house of the collector. ” 

“ Any one with her?” 

“ The children.” 

“ Any one else?” 

“ The two daughters of the Heelwala Sahib ” (the indigo 
gentleman). 

They are soon galloping as hard as their horses can carry 
them toward Mr. Dyke’s house. 


224 : 


THE TOUCHSTOifE OF PEKIL. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE DOWNFALL OF THE CIVIL POWEE. 

Although in the heat and brightness of the midday 
hour the roads are almost as much deserted now as in the 
cold and darkness of the midnight hour in the winter sea- 
son, there is the usual crowd of people in front of the 
kutcherry, where all the public and private business of so 
vast and populous a tract of country centers. Here are 
gathered together the usual motley throng of suitors, apph- 
cants, plaintiffs, defendants, office-seekers, attorneys, let- 
ter-writers, peons, policemen, pipe-fillers, water-carriers, 
sweetmeat-sellers, men from the country, and men from 
the town. And within the building the large official staff 
is busy as usual with the multitudinous details, connected 
with the work of local rule. . Clerks seated at tables or 
squatted on the floor — writing from left to right or from 
right to left — are busy docketing, filing, checking, drafting, 
copying, making out and filling up innumerable forms and 
reports and returns and statements, much as many of them 
may have thought in their hearts that their labor was a 
useless one. The captain of the ship of English rule and 
his two lieutenants are busy with their usual -duties. Young . 
Sulivan Bird sits at his office table, beneath the waving 
punka, trying his petty cases, doing his treasury work, 
much as his thoughts may wander, as they have done late- 
ly, back to the Haileybury and Eton days, back to the 
Hampshire home. Mr. Eorde sits at his table, beneath the 
waving punka, conducting his more responsible duties in 
his usual solid, thoughtful, painstaking manner, setting 
aside as best he may the thought . of the dangers that 
threaten wife and child. And on the raised platform in 
the great central hall sits he on whose shoulders rests the 
full burden of the work, the whole weight of the responsi- 
bility. John Dyke sits there hearing the evidence in the 
case before him, reading and writing letters, looking over 
forms and statements, giving verbal orders, scrawling his 
initials on innumerable documents. The deep, full frill of 
the long, heavy punka over his head rufi0.es gently through 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


225 


the air, a very emblem of peacefulness. Behind him stands 
a peon who keeps the flies olf with a silver-handled, silver- 
haired whisk. He has to carry on his weighty work under 
new and heavy conditions of thought. The charge of the 
hundreds of thousands of pounds of go^fernment treasure 
assumes a new aspect. He holds the honor of his country, 
the lives of his countrymen, in his hand. The vessel of 
state carries a valuable cargo, valuable lives. There are 
breakers ahead. And yet the means of guiding her may at 
any moment fail him. The task of ruling — that noble 
function — weighs heavily on him now, for the power needed 
to carry it on may at any moment depart from him. That 
curious, subtle influence of a settled and accepted order of 
things, on which his influence rests, on which his authority 
is based, may at any moment cease to act, the spell be 
broken. The slightest fracture in that marvelously strong 
and yet marvelously brittle orb of government whose 
strength depends on its entirety, may cause it to fly to 
pieces. A small breach in the embankment, and the 
waters carry it .away. The strength of the sides of the ves- 
sel depends" on their continuity: an opening in them, and 
the vessel sinks. At any moment he may find himself in 
the miserable condition of a powerless monarch. The 
words of his mouth may cease to have any power. He 
may find himself a hunted fugitive in the domain through 
which he has made royal progress. He issues orders not 
knowing whether they will ever be carried out. He sends 
men to prison for years and months not knowing whether 
they are likely to remain there for as many weeks or days. 
But the burden of these thoughts has been lightened lately 
by the news ox the advance of our troops on Delhi. A 
short time more and it will be retaken, and the English 
power be once more unquestioned and supreme throughout 
the land. In the meanwhile one day is just like another, 
only hotter. So Mr. Dyke bids the man piill the punka 
harder, and lights another cigar. 

But now, in the throng of men without and within the 
building, takes place a movement such as you may see in a 
disturbed ants^ nest. There is a sudden commotion. On 
the faces of the officials seated before Mr. Dyke appears a 
look of disquiet and expectation. Then a man comes run- 
ning, open-mouthed, and shouts out that the Sepoys are 
coming. All is confusion. The man pulling the punka 


226 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

drops fclie rope. The prisoner aJ the bar walks away. The 
attorneys make a hasty departure. Plaintiff and defendant 
disappear. Monshee and Mutsuddy and Muhafiz Dufter 
absquatulate. Clerks drop their pens and make for their 
shoes. Chuprasees run away. In a very few minutes the 
building is almost empty. 

The three Englishmen meet together in Eorde^s room. 

Write to your wife, Forde, and tell her to go over at 
once to my house and accompany my wife to Hajigunje 
factory. Tell her not to delay a moment. I have written 
to my wife.* Send your letter by the sotvar (horseman). I 
will send mine by my jemedar. He has been with me 
twenty years. He will accompany the ladies out."’-’ 

The letters are dispatched. 

We must turn out the Sepoy guard and the policemen. 
But first we must arm ourselves. There are some good 
tulwars (swords) in the store-room; but I am afraid their 
hilts will be somewhat small for my big fist/^ says Dyke. 

“ I wish I had my revolver here/’ says Bird. 

So do I, my boy.” 

In pursuance of the policy of unconcern, of ignoring the 
crisis, of pursuing the even tenor of their way, they had 
gone down each day to their work unarmed. They go to 
the end of the building at which the treasury is, in order to 
turn out the Sepoy guard. They find that it has turned 
itself out. The men have put on their jackets, though not 
their trousers, and seized their arms. 

I will remain here,’” says Dyke, turning to Eorde. 

“ You go and get the policemen together, and keep at the 
other end of the kutcherry. Take Chota with you.” 

The two men understand that the speaker is choosing 
the post of danger for himself. 

‘‘ You had better keep Bird with you,” says Eorde. 

“ Yes, let me remain with you,” says the young fellow, 
eagerly. 

“No,” says Dyke,- with a smile, “it will require two 
men to keep the police fellows together.” 

Dyke had gathered together a band of his policemen, 
ostensibly for the purpose of protecting the records, really 
for the purpose of having some counterbalancing force to 
that of the Sepoy guard. 

Eorde and Bird get the men together. They are of 


tHE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 227 

course undisciplined, and armed mostly with sword and 
shield, pike or club, though some few have matchlocks. 

And now there is nothing to be done but wait. Shouts 
and cries inform them that the mob is ^louring forth from 
back slum and alley, eager for destruction and plunder. 
Sharp cracklings, columns of fire and smoke inform ear 
and eye that the work has begun. 

“ That is Zouch’s bungalow/^ says Forde. 

“ I hope Mrs. Zouch has got away,^" says Bird, in ac- 
cents such as have never issued from his merry lips before. 
"When they turn their eyes away they find their band greatly 
diminished. 

‘‘ If any man attempts to leave I will cut him down,^^ 
says Forde. 

Again the terrible waiting which gives them time to 
think. The roar of a crowd from this side. A dozen of 
thQ policemen bolt. They manage to keep the rest together 
by threats, reproaches, promises. But no appearance of 
the Sepoys yet. They have barely a mile to traverse. 
They should by this time have been here. They generally 
make straight for the treasury. 

“ What a heavy smoke, says one of the men. ‘‘ There; 
over the peepul-tree. 

A dense column of smoke is seen above the trees. 

It is the noMlch gliur (dancing-house, meaning the 
Assembly Rooms), says another man. 

Again the rush and roar of a crowd on the public road 
without the compound wall. The policemen begin ta dis- 
perse. They have no desire to fight the Sepoys; they be- 
lieve the English rule has come to an end; perchance they 
wish to share in the plunder. At all events the efforts of 
Forde and Bird to keep them together are all in vain. 
They find themselves standing there with only a couple of 
men by their side. They go to report the matter to their 
chief. 

“I am not very sorry, says Dyke. ‘‘I can do now 
what perhaps I ought to have done before. Our horses are 
round that corner, Forde. Mount yours and ride to my 
house. The women will want an escort. Get them out to 
the factory as soon as you can.^’ 

‘‘Send Bird. 

“’No; you have your wife and children and these two 
girls to look after. 


238 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


“ But how can I go and leave you here?^^ 

“ I order you to go. The charge of the women is a duty. 
Now, donT argue.'’' 

“ I must go where you order me. But one word. Dyke. 
Do not you remain and keep Bird here needlessly." 

‘‘ Of course not. Now be off." 

Half an hour, three quarters of an hour pass away. 
Then a horseman comes galloping up, his horse one mass 
of sweat and foam. He has been sent by the kottoal, the 
head of the police, to inform Mr. Dyke that the Sepoys 
have marched into the city to the house or palace of the 
Nuwab of Hajigunje; that they have proclaimed him ruler 
of the district, as representative of the Kin^ of Delhi; that 
they have been joined by liis retainers; that the united 
forces, accompanied by a great rabble, are now marching 
into the station and on to the kutcherry; the houses of 
some native Christians at the border of the town have been 
sacked and the inhabitants butchered. There is a great 
commotion among the Sepoys of the guard. The native 
officer comes up to Dyke and says, 

“ The men are whispering among themselves that the 
rule of the English is over, that of the King of Delhi re- 
established. They are no longer to be depended upon. It 
would not be prudent for you to remain here any longer." 

He is civil, but no longer respectful. 

“ It would bd as well to go and make arrangements for 
those of your household," he adds, significantly. 

These last words pierce Dyke to the heart. But he says 
firmly and aloud, 

“ Let the Sepoys know that the British raj is not over so 
long as I am here. I look to you to keep them faithful. " • 

But when the man has moved away he turns to Bird and 
says, 

“ Now, then, Chota, I must send you after Eorde. Ride 
hard to my house. Tell Eorde not to delay a minute. Tell 
my wife, as a message from me, not to delay to pack up 
anything. That is what I am afraid of. Tell her to look 
on everything in the house as lost. (Poor Flora and her 

E .) Tell her that I do not intend to go back to the 
0, but shall ride out straight to the factory and meet 
you all there. Now be off. Ride hard." 

“lean not leave you here, all by yourself," says 'the 
young fellow, hastily. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


229 


But you must/ ^ 

‘‘I won a/’ 

“ I order you to — 

“ Oh, you go. Dyke!"" says the youhgster, pleadingly. 
“ Mrs. Dyke will expect you to go to her."" 

There is a quiver on John Dyke"s face. But he says, 
I will meet her and you all at the factory."" 

“ You go, and leave me in charge here— you know the 
charge of the treasury is mine — or let me remain with 
you."" 

“ I must stop here until I am obliged to go, which will 
be whe:' the Sepoys appear, and then I shall lose no time. 
I shall probably be at the factory before you all."" 

You are only sending me away*—"" 

“ Not a bit of it — "" 

The hum of an advancing multitude. 

“ By God, you will be too late,"" says Dyke, stamping his 
foot. The lives of all these women may depend on your 
going at once. Be olf. Bide hard. And, Chota! Tho^ 
other ladies have their husbands with them. Should I not 
turn up take care of my wife, will you? She was always 
very fond of you. Promise me. "" 

‘‘ I will," "'says the young fellow, huskily. 

When Bird, just before turning the corner behind which 
the horses are, looks back, he sees that Dyke has left the 
spot where they had parted, and has taken his stand before 
the treasury door. He, Bird, stands still; he must run 
back and place himself by the other’s side. But Dyke 
waves him away; he has turned the corner; he leaps on to 
his horse and dashes off in the direction of Mr. Dyke"s 
house, which, however, he never reaches. 

When, at the end of that year, official inquiry cameTo 
be made into the circumstances connected with the mutiny 
at Hajigunje it could not be ascertained clearly what took 
place at tlie kutcherry after Bird left. There were too 
many witnesses of what had happened for the truth to be 
arrived at. Bird had seen John Dyke take his stand by the 
door of the treasury, for whose safety he was responsible; 
he was never seen or heard of afterward; his history went 
no further. Whether he was slain at the kutcherry or on 
the way to the factory the official inquiries could not deter- 
mine. But there were hundreds who could have told, if 
they had chosen, how, during the whole of that terrible 


230 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

night, the body of John Dyke lay on the ground not far 
from the door of the rifled treasury. Though a civilian, he 
had died like a soldier at his post. The captain had stuck 
by his ship to the last. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

MRS. HTKE^S LAST RECEPTION OF GUESTS. 

When Mrs. Forde and her party enter Mrs. Dyke'-s large 
and splendidly furnished drawing-room, they find that lady 
pacing up and down it with a gait and mien the very re- 
verse of those to which she has accustomed them. AVhere 
is now the proud look, the haughty bearing.^ The usual 
queenly walk has been exchanged for the rude stride of a 
bumboat woman. Even at that moment of terrible agita- 
tion Mary Xeale can not help observing the change. Or 
rather she does, not so much remark it then as remember it 
afterward, when every trivial incident of the time comes 
back so vividly. She then recalls the extraordinary change 
in the manner and mode of speech of the Burra Mem, the 
local queen. Queens have been queens in a prison cell, on 
the fearful, ignominious scaffold. Xay, where is even the 
air of a lady such as Mrs. Forde bears, notwithstanding her 
greater cause for apprehension and fear? The soft, quiet 
tones and easy, untroubled air of the drawing-room are 
not to be expected at a time like this. But the equanimity 
and self-possession and dignity of carriage which are the 
habits of a life-time do not disappear altogether in the mo- 
ment of trial; nay, often shine out the brighter then. But 
here the elaborately graceful carriage, the carefully modu- 
lated tone of voice, have given place to a vulgar bearing 
and rough, rude speech. The fact is, the sudden shock 
has shaken down the later artificial manner and brought 
back the earlier native manner. The cloak of later life 
has been shaken off, and she stands before them in her old 
home dress. And as is often the case with a Scotchman or 
an Irishman in moments of strong emotion, when the 
brogue breaks out, so it was now with Mrs. Dyke; the 
teaching and striving of long :*8ars was lost; the accents of 
her cockney home come bacti upon her. 

Why does not my Tisband come ^onie?^^ she asks, after 
shaking hands with them in a hasty, perfunctory nianner. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


231 


“ What does he mean by saying we are to go'oiit to Haji- 
gunje Factory at once? Who is to take charge of the house? 
What am I to do with the silver-plate? Silver soup-tureen, 
side dishes, salvers? They belonged to my first ^usb'and. 
He bought them from Sir Dangerfield Gunn, the com- 
mander-in-chief. 

“ Mr. Dyke may not have thought of these things. 

‘‘ Not thought of them!^^ 

Mrs. Dyke fans herself violently, notwithstanding the 
gale of wind that comes from the long punka sweeping 
through the air over her head. 

Dear Mrs. Dyke, probably your husband and mine 
think it their duty to remain where they are, ^ ^ says Mrs. 
Forde, gently. 

‘‘ Dutyl Fiddlesticks! He does not think the govern- 
ment will refurnish the house for him, get him fresh silver- 
plate.^^ 

Being the chief responsible officer he probably does not 
like to leave his post at a time like this. 

‘‘ Why can not he leave your husband in charge, or Mr.. 
Bird? He has nothing to lose but a few old tables and 
chairs and saddles and bridles. You have not seen all my 
jewelry. You do not suppose I would wear my best jew- 
elry in a hole like this,^M‘umes Mrs. Dyke, her big face 
streaming with perspiration. ‘‘Mutiny! of course the 
troops would mutiny when they have with them an old fool 
like Monk — and a young fool like Dacres. 

Poor Chloe Neale, who is more accustomed to kind looks 
than harsh ones, quite trembles as Mrs. Dyke looks fiercely 
at her. When we are troubled ourselves we are ready to 
hurt others. Mrs. Dyke is in a savage mood; ready to 
wound and strike. 

One of the children asks for water. 

“ May I ask for a glass of water for my little girlr^’ says 
Mrs. Forde. 

Mrs. Dyke pays no attention. 

“ A glass of water for my little girl,^’ says Mrs. Forde, 
gently. 

“ Oh, get this child a glass of water,’’ says Mrs. Dyke, 
roughly, to her gorgeous major-domo, Amir Ali, who has 
been hanging about the room as if anxious to be at hand to 
render aiiy service needed to his mistress. When he re- 
turns with the glass of water on one of the silver salvers. 


2S2 THE TOUCHSTON^E OF PERIL. 

Mary Neale thinks she detects under the usual servant's 
livery of a deferential look and manner which he wears a 
something covert and hidden, a something of insolence and 
triumph. 

“ Does your man know anything about the mutiny in the 
lines?" she asks, hastily, of Mrs. Dyke. 

Do you know anything of the mutiny in the Sepoy 
lines?" says Mrs. Dyke, not looking at the man, but let- 
ting her eyes wander around the gorgeously furnished 
room. 

“ What has happened in the lines is this," says the man; 
and Mary, who has her eyes fixed on his face, sees there 
the delight and triumph with which he communicates the 
intelligence, ‘‘ that the Sepoys have mutinied and killed all 
their officers. " 

Shrieks burst from Ohloe's lips, and she throws herself 
on the sofa and buries her head in the pillows. Mrs. Dorde 
gives a sharp, short cry, and draws her children closer to 
her. And in the midst of the flaming heat Mary Neale 
has experienced a sudden feeling of icy chilliness. But she 
has to give her attention to Chloe. On the man's face is a 
look of Satanic exultation: he gloats over the distress he 
has caused. / 

“We must leave this at once," says Mrs. Forde to Mrs. 
Dyke. 

“ But my plate. My dresses — ^from Paris. " 

“ We must not delay any longer." 

Mrs. Dyke sits still. 

“We shall have to go by ourselves," says Mrs. Forde, 
“ M you will not come With us. I should be very sorry. " 

But any further urgent appeals are rendered unnecessary. 
There is a great commotioji in the veranda. Then Mrs. 
Graham, the widow of the bandmaster, rushes into the 
drawing-room. She presents a dreadful spectacle: head 
bare, hair disheveled, clothes all bloody and torn, covered 
with dust from head to foot. She pours out her sorrows 
with a flood of tears: she and her daughters were market- 
ing in the town; they were torn away from her side and 
carried off to the palace of the brother of the Nuwab of 
Haiigunje; she has been beaten, buffeted, knocked down, 
kicked. 

“ Oh, my daughters! oh, my da\jghters!" she cries, 
wringing her hands. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


233 

“We must go at- once, we can not delay any longer, ” 
says Mrs. Forde to Mrs. Dyke in a peremptory tone, 
strangely at variance with her usual soft and gentle spfeech. 

“ Tell them to get our * carriage ready,^^says Mrs. Dyke 
to one of the many servants now gathered together, and 
rushes away to her bedroom. 

She is not gone, not near, one quarter of an hour; but to 
the others it seems many hours — days, years. She appears 
^yith a large courier-bag in her hand. Into this she has 
thrust her cases of jewelry. This really was of great 
value. Her earliest ambition had been to wear diamonds 
and she had been able to gratify it. The carriage has not 
yet come, but they hurry into the veranda regardless now 
of the glare and the heat. The carriage does not come. 
Another servant is dispatched to the stables. They are at 
some distance from the house. But at length their hot, 
anxious eyes see it coming up the long, winding avenue. 
Mrs. Borders carriage is ^ready in front of the veranda. 
Now the other has pulled up at the foot of the steps too; 
the large and splendid barouche, with the large and splen- 
did pair of horses and the silver-mounted harness. “ We 
bought it from Sir Mangles Prattle, the senior member of 
council. It was considered the best turnout in Calcutta,” 
Mrs. Dyke was in the habit of sayng. 

“ Put it into our carriage,’^ says Mrs. Dyke, handing the 
hag to Amir Ali. 

The majestic major-domo takes the bag and walks down 
the steps to the carriage. He opens the door. He steps 
in. He seats himself quickly on the back seat, and calls 
out to the coachman, a cousin of his own, “ To the house 
of the Nuwab — quick.-’^ And as they drive off he holds up 
the bag toward Mrs. Dyke and calls out, derisively, “Our' 
carriage. My carriage.^'’ 

Poor Mrs. Dyke stands stunned and speechless. She 
seems as if she were in a trance. But from this she is soon 
awakened. There rolls up from the gate-way through which 
the carriage has just passed out the roar of a multitude. 

“ They are coming to loot the house. They will kill us 
if they find us here,^' shrieks Mrs. Graham. 

“ Come back into the house,'' cries Dharm Singh, the 

* The English in India always use the “ kingly we,” the we of 
dignity. 


234 : THE TOUCHSTpiq'E OF PERIL. 

faithful old jemadar whom Dyke had dispatched with the 
note to his wife. The head of the crcrwd has appeared 
at the top of the avenue. 

^‘Jye! Jye I (Victoryl Victory!) shout the Hindoos. 

Futteh ! Fntteli (Victory! Victory!) shout the 
Mohammedans. 

'' Mar sala Feringhee Ro V* (Slay the Feringhee broth- 
ers-iii-law!) shout they all together. 

Dharm Singh and the women and children run into the 
drawing-room; through it into the adjacent dining-room; 
through it into the back veranda; down the steps; through 
the little wicket into the large, inclosed space of ground — 
half orchard, half plantation. The trees are so thickly 
planted in parts that some of the party think they will 
suffice for their concealment and shelter. But the jemadar 
points out how very conspicuous their white dresses are: 
how far oF they can be seen. They can not remain out in 
the open. If seen they are lost. He conducts them, the 
poor children clutching affrightedly at their mother’s dress, 
to a building in one corner of the inclosure which is used as 
a tool-house, for the storing of seeds and firewood and fod- 
der. Into this he hurries them. 


CHAPTEB XXXH. 

THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH. 

The building is a long one. The jemadar places the 
women and children in one of the corners furthest from 
the door-way, behind some bundles of brushwood and grass, 
and adds to the heap. The place of concealment is a capi- 
tal one; their presence there is not likely to be suspected; 
the building is very dimly lighted, this corner in almost 
complete darkness. Tffie open face of the earth, the glar- 
ing light of the day, have become dreadful to them. They 
welcome the dark seclusion. They have trembled as the 
shouts and yells of the roaring multitude have fallen on 
their ears. They welcome the deep silence. Their first 
feeling is one of satisfaction and rejief as they crouch down 
in the dark, dusty corner. But as' the moments go by they 
begin to feel the physical tortures of their situation. 
Their position is a very cramped one; the heat terrific; 
the air foul as well as fiery. They begin to suffer from a 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 235 

raging thirst. It is in such comers that deadly reptiles 
lurk. In ordinary times they would not have ventured 
into it on that account alone. Every rustle makes 
their flesh creep. They begin to reflec;t " on the terrible 
change in their condition: between the dwellers in the 
spacious mansions and the lurkers in this horrid shed. 
Then so fenced round and secure, dwelling in such joy and 
honor; and now in such fear and abasement, exposed de- 
fenseless to such terrible dangers. They, accustomed to 
service and homage, exposed to insult and degradation. 
The lordly white skin become a leprous taint. What a 
horror of great darkness had fallen on their bright and 
brilliant day! To be exposed to dangers which made death 
a hope. Their comeliness become a terror to them. That 
womanhood which was their strong 'wall and fence, their 
citadel, their sanctuary, their robe of honor, their sacred 
vestment, their crown, of glory, might now become their 
defenseless treasure-house, their tenement of weakness, 
their garhient of torture, their robe of shame, their crown 
of thorns. 

The poor children begin to suffer terribly. 

“Ob, mother! it is so hot,^^ says poor Guy. 

“ Hush! hush! my dear,^^ whispered his mother. “ We 
must keep perfectly quiet. We must not say a word. 

And Guy does not. But it is not so easy to keep poor 
Ethel silent. 

“ Oh, mother dear, the mosquitoes are biting me so 
much — 

“ Hush, my child! 

“ Oh, mother dear! I am so frightened. 

“ Hush, dear, hush!’^ 

Then comes a little sob. 

“ Keep quiet, you "orrid child,^' says Mrs. Dyke, grasp- 
ing her violently by the shoulder and pressing her down. 
Ethel utters a little cry. 

“ There are some people in here,'^ exclaims a voice in 
Hindoostanee. 

The hearts of the fugitives almost cease to beat. 

The darkness in the shed becomes, deeper as three men 
stand together in the doorway and peer in. They are three 
Sepoys. Their obstruction of the light is fortunate. 

“ There is nothing in here but ropes and buckets and 
bundles of firewood, says one man, whose voice is soft. 


236 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

“ But I heard a child cry," says another, whose voice is 
rough. 

“ It must have been in the road behind the building." 

Very likely." 

And they turn to go. 

Poor Ethel snivels. 

“ There are some people in here," cries the harsh-voiced 
man, turning round again. They must be Eeringhees. 
Look out!" and the three men lower their muskets. 

‘‘ They are in that corner. I can hear their breathing," 
he goes on. ‘‘ I will fire a shot into it." 

Mrs. Graham throws down one of the bundles of fire- 
wood, steps forward — at the risk of being shot — and cries 
out, 

‘‘We are only women and children here.^" 

“ Why, it is the mother of Donald," cries the pleasant- 
voiced Sepoy. 

In accordance with the custom of the East, which we 
know to have prevailed for nearly two thousand years, Mrs. 
Graham is known in the regiment as the mother of her 
eldest son. 

“So it is. But there are others there too; probably 
Eeringhees. There may be some men.,^^ 

“ I swear to you, on the head of my son, that there are 
only women and children. Is that you. Earn Singh, son of 
Dharm Pair" 

“ Yes,^^ replies the gentle- toned man. 

“ I thought so. Yes, we are only women and children,^ ^ 
she goes on, pouring out her words very fast. “ You 
would not hurt women and children. What honor and 
glory in that? Brave men, soldiers like you, would not 
incur the disgrace of injuring poor, weak women and inno- 
cent children. " 

“ They are Christians and Eeringhees," says the gruff- 
voiced man. 

“ But still women like your mothers and sisters, children 
dke your sons and daughters. You would not injure them. 
You would not make your faces black. I charge you in 
the name of God to do us no harm. He will punish you 
for it. You remember, Pam Singh, how I nursed your 
sick child, and gave you medicine for it? Saved its life. " 

“You did — you did. Let us go away and leave them 
alone. Her husband was always kind to us.^-’ 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


237 


‘‘ I could kill you and them if I chose/^ cried the man 
with the harsh voice— how terrible it sounded in the ears 
of the lurkers — handling his piece ominously. He is eager 
to assert the superiority of killing. Some other strong 
passion must be aroused to overcome this one of the desire 
to slay: greed may overpower bloodthirstiness. 

Mrs. Graham understands this. 

So the courageous little Malay woman cries out. 

Of course you could. But what would it profit you? 
And while you are losing time here they are plundering the 
house, taking away all the valuable silver things, and the 
jewels and the guns and pistols.'’^ 

“ Is the house being looted?^ 

‘‘ Of course it is: that is why we have come away from 
it and hidden here.^^ 

“ Let us go there at once,^^ cries the third Sepoy, who 
has not yet spoken, and who cares neither to hurt the fugi- 
tives nor help them. 

The Sepoys move off. 

“ God do well unto you for sparing our lives, cries tlie 
mother of Donald, fervently. 

Those in the corner may now breathe more freely. But 
they have tasted of the bitterness of death. 

The white light of midday has been succeeded by the rosy 
brightness of the later afternoon. The old jemadar has 
come and gone very often. They have suffered no further 
molestation. Their immunity has been due to the mode of 
plunder. In Europe, in Paris, for instance, owing to the 
height of the houses, the lofty staircases, the single entrance- 
door, in times of plunder only the light and valuable arti- 
cles can be removed,* there is more destruction in situ than 
carrying away; but here the rooms are all on the ground 
floor, there are innumerable door-wa3^s, outer as well as 
inner; there is more carrying away than destruction in situ, 
though there is a good deal of that too. The rapidity with 
which the house has been stripped is, indeed, marvelous. 
It is like the stripping of a tree by a flight of locusts. Or 
rather, as those insects throw themselves on a tree in a 
mass, the mode of work here more resembled the proceed- 
ings in the neighborhood of an ants’-nest, where you see 
one black line of workers hurrying forth, another hurrying 
back. From the main gateway up to the house extended, 
for some time, two continuous streams of marauders, the 


238 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL, 

one coming in empty-handed, the other going out full- 
handed. What would Mrs. Dyke’s feelings have been could 
she have looked on the latter line and seen her valuable 
shawls and mantles in the arms of some filthy, half-naked 
hag, her beautiful dresses under the reeking armpits of 
some nine tenths unclothed ruffian! To seize quickly and 
get away fast is the order of the day. The things have to 
be concealed. And the more the house is emptied the 
faster do the late comers hasten to more profitable fields. 
They do not linger in the compound. They do not enter 
the orchard, in which just now there is nothing to steal. 
They hurry away. 

But these in the shed are beginning to find their position 
unendurable. They feel as if they must die in that hot, 
foul air. There are two small windows in fhe back wall of 
the building, the shutters of which have been hitherto 
closed. They must get some fresh air. Chloe is fainting. 
Mrs. Graham gets up to open one of them, and opens it 
cautiously. As she does so, she calls out through it, 

‘‘ Sir! sir!” ^ 

The glimmering square of light is darkened. The sounds 
of a voice come into the shed. Good God! a familiar voice, 
an English voice. Chloe Neale is aroused from her faint- 
ing state. Surely it was the voice of Percy Dacres. Mrs. 
Graham returns from the window to the corner. 

“ Captain Isteel (Steele) and Mr. Dacres and Mr. Forde,” 
she says. 

A hysterical cry, half sob, half laugh, bursts from Chloe ’s 
lips. 

Impossible to describe their -feeliitgs at this moment! 
Nay, easy. 

It is simply one overwhelming feeling of relief. 

The tears are flowing in torrents down Mrs. Forde’s 
cheeks. 

“ Papa! papa!” cries little Ethel, struggling to get up. 

But Mrs. Graham tells them they must keep still and 
not stir as yet. 

The sun is now near his setting. The peaceful evening 
— peaceful in thousands of villages lying close around them 
— is coming on. The crows returning from the town to 
the mango groves in which they roost are wending their 
cawing flight over the garden. It grows darker and darker 
in the shed. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 239 

The monarch sun has departed to visit his kingdoms in 
the west, but the air is still full of the brightness of his 
glory. 

The little window is again darkened, and Mrs. Graham 
hurries up to it. ^ 

She comes back and says to Mary, ‘^'Gentleman want 
speak to you,"’"’ and Mary hurries to the casement. 

“Is that you. Miss Neale?’^ It is Captain Steele who 
asks. 

“Yes.^^ 

He then says, in a quiet, deliberate, emphatic way, 

“ Make your way along the wall that bounds the garden 
on this side, until you come to where the thick laurel hedge 
meets it. We will meet you there. 

How greedily their oppressed lungs suck in the still 
warm but fresher air; they feel as if a great weight had 
been removed from their chests; a tightening, torturing 
band removed from their foreheads. 

They pass swiftly along the foot of tlie high garden wall. - 
They come to the appointed spot, where they find Mr. Forde 
and Captain Steele. Mrs. Forde is clasped in her hus- 
band’s arms. Mary Neale and Steele clasp hands. (She 
learns subsequently that it was he who had thought out 
and arranged the mode of their escape; ) Forde lifts up his 
children and kisses them. But the current of his joy is 
troubled. 

“ Where is my husband, Mr. Forder” cries Mrs. Dyke. 

“ I left him at the kutcherry.” 

“ Left him! deserted him!” 

“ He would not let me stay with him.” 

“ Would not let you: ‘You wanted to get to your wife 
and children. W^hy should he not come to me?” 

“It was some hours ago,” says Forde, hastily. “He 
was most anxious that I should escort you to the factory. 
We shall meet him there. We have no time to lose. You 
must creep through this opening in the hedge.” 

Mrs. Forde’s carriage is standing in the road. Space 
does not permit us to detail Mr. Forde’s adventures; how 
he lost his horse and then met his carriage, and how he and 
Steel and Dacres came together. Dacres is on his charger, 
holding Steele’s horse by the bridle. Chloe runs up to him 
with a little cry. He stoops down, only just touches her 
hand, and then cries out. 


^40 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


‘‘ Into the carriage! Quick! Quick !^^ 

Forde is to drive. He has beckoned Mary on to the 
coach-box by his side. Mrs. Dyke, Mrs. Forde, Chloe, and 
the two children quite fill up the vehicle. 

‘‘ Drive on!’^ cries Dacres. 

Mrs. Graham is standing by the side of the road in sor- 
rowful isolation. How great their concern for one another; 
their unconcern of her! her, the outsider. What is to be- 
come of her? What is she to do?"^ 

Mary Neale espies her. 

‘‘ Get into the carriage, Mrs. Graham,"’^ she calls out. 

There is no room for her here,^^ cries Mrs. Dyke. 

We can not have her in the same carriage with us. 

‘‘ Drive on,^^ cries Dacres, who has already set his horse 
in motion. 

‘‘ But we can not leave Mrs. Graham behind,^'’ exclaims 
Mary. 

“ She can not come in here; there is no room; the car- 
riage will break down,’^ screams Mrs. Dyke. 

^ Then she must have my place,'’ ^ cries Mary, jumping 
down from the box. 

“ Good God, Mary!^-’ shouts Dacres, passionately. Do 
you know that we are in danger of our lives? That every 
-moment is precious! Get on to the box again. 

She saved our lives,'’'’ answers Mary, not moving. 

Steele has seen and heard what was going on, but he has 
been engaged in tightening the girths of his saddle. He 
has now, however, mounted his horse and ridden up to the 
carriage. 

‘‘Of course we can not leave Mrs. Graham behind. I 
never meant to. Get up on the box, Mrs. Graham. Now 
then, Guy, you must get on (he box too. Jump into 
the carriage. Miss Neale. Ethel must stand. Drive on, 
Forde. 

Captain Steele^ s orders or directions, being given with as 
much decision as precision, are carried out at once. 

Mrs. Dyke^s “ I am sure the carriage will break down,^-’ 
and Dacres ’s ‘MVe shall only be able to get on at a snail'’ s 

pace. What folly! What d d folly!"’ are lost in the 

rumbling of. the wheels. 

The road does not run in the dircetion of Hajigunje fac- 
tory, but they keep to it until they get some distance away 
from the station, and then turn into another one that does. 


TPE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


241 


This in one of its sweeps passes not very far from the other 
end of the station where stands the pretty little bungalow 
which was to have been the first home of Ghloe Neale and 
Percy Dacres. 

They all know its situatioif; all eyes are turned in that 
direction as they come round a long-spread mango grove 
and face the station. 

“ By God! the buugalow is on fire/^ shouts Dacres. 

A dun column of smoke rises high into the air; tongues 
of flame leap up, the conflagration is at its height. The 
light roof of an Indian bungalow, composed as it is of 
bamboos and grass, burns very fast, more especially when 
dried by a fierce June sun. Now they see a pyramid of 
clear flame rising high above the trees. Suddenly this lifts 
itself up higher, as if by a convulsive effort, and then sinks 
completely down, and its place is taken by a dense column 
of smoke irradiated by myriads of upward-rushing sparks* 
The roof has fallen in. 

Ohloe lays her head down on Mary^s shoulder and 
bursts into a passion of weeping. Dacres bursts out into a 
torrent of oaths and execrations. They turn away from 
the station. They have met with no interruption ex- 
cept from the herds of cattle on their way back to 
the villages from the distant grazing-grounds. But now, 
as they are moving along a broad, uncultivated piece of 
ground which serves the purpose of a road, they catch sight 
of a large body of men coming down a cross road which 
joins it. This road runs through some sand ridges and has 
been worn deep by the rain floods, as such roads are wont 
to be. The men are probably making for Hajigunje, as 
vultures make for a carcass. Now arises the momentous 
question. Who will reach the point of junction of the two 
roads first? If they themselves do not they will meet tlie 
band of men face to face, and their superior numbers will 
render any resistance to them, should they prove hostile, of 
no avail. The mere meeting them may make them hostile. 
If they turn back they will be pushed back very far, even 
to the hostile confines of Hajigunje. Once past the point 
of junction they have the running straight before them; 
they can move faster than the natives. And the men will 
not care to follow them away from Hajigunje. Another 
thing is, the band has not caught sight of them yet. So 
they will risk it, and Forde whips up the horses. The 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


242 


hearts of the women beat fast with excitement. ' But now 
it seems most probable that they will meet the front rank 
of the band at the very point of junction. It is too late to 
turn back. 

“ Keep on as hard as you can, Forde/^ shouts Steele, 
and he gallops forward and dashes up the narrow, deep- 
cut road, until the horse^s head nearly touches the foremost 
man of the advancing column and brings the column to a 
standstill, and causes it to recoil. 

“ What is the matter cry some of those behind. 

/‘Is he going to ride over usr^^ cry some of those in 
front. 

It had so chanced, from the deepness of the road and a 
curve in it, that the men had not seen the carriage and the 
horsemen. 

“Whoisit?^^ 

“ A Feringhee.^^ 

“ What does he want?^^ 

“ How far is it to Hajigunje!^^ calls out Steele. 

“ About three miles or more. 

“ So much as that?^^ 

“ Yes.^’ 

“ I thought it was much less.^^ 

“ No,'’^ said the front-rank man, who had answered, 
surlily. 

“Why ^re we delayed?’’ cries out a man from behind, 
impatiently. 

“ Which is the shortest way to it?” asks Steele, solicit- 
ously. 

“ Along that road you have just come from. ” 

“ Which way do I turn — to the right or to the left?” 

“ Why do we not move on?” “We are losing time. ” 
“ We ^hall be too late,” come- impatiently from various 
points of. the column. 

“ This Feringhee and his horse are in the way.” 

“ Then get him out of the way.” 

At this moment the carriage passes the end of the road. 
The men raise a shout. Then comes a moment of observa- 
tion. They do not know what the strength of the party 
may be. Then comes a yell and a cry of “ Feringhees 
escaping from Hajigunje.” Now is the critical moment. 
The column begins to heave forward. Steele draws from 
his holster a pistol, one of a pair that had belonged to his 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 243 . 

grandfather, and with which that worthy but irascible old 
gentleman had been ‘‘ out several times, and pointing it 
at the foremost man, shouts out, 

“ Take care! If you move I fire. 

The front-rank men recoil -?;uolently, but are soon thrust 
forward again by those behind— they are not facing the pis- 
tol. Steele debates whether he shall fire or not; to do so 
will probably not delay the impending column; the dis- 
charge will only bring down the avalanche; the emptied 
pistol will lose its retarding power; the death of one of the 
men may provoke a determined and persistent pursuit. So 
he retires slowly down the lane, threatening with the pis- 
tol, -and the stream of men follows him slowly though with • 
great noise and tumult. When he reaches the end he is 
delighted to see the carriage well away in the distance; the 
villagers pour out into the broad road like water through 
an opened floodgate, and salute Steele, as he turns his 
horse ar.d gallops away, with a shower of clods and execra- 
tions, and one man with a matchlock, who has been unable 
to use the weapon in the crush of the crowd, sends a futile 
bullet after him. But they attempt no pursuit. It would 
now have been alnftst a hopeless one. 

“ You managed that well, Steele!’^ says Forde. 

We are deeply indebted to you,^^ cries Mary. 

‘‘ The horses are keeping up very well,'’^ says Steele. 

We have only another mile now.’’^ 

And now above the trees they catch sight of the bizarre 
sky-line, the big dome, the smaller cupolas, the tiled and 
thatched roofs, of the old mausoleum. Thank God! there 
is no column of fire, not now the symbol of safety, but of 
destruction. And over the grounds around it lies the usual 
quiet and stillness, broken now by the joyous, welcoming 
bark of the dogs. And when Mary runs into the drawing- 
room she finds her mother quietly trimming the lamp. 

‘‘ I vvas just beginning to be anxious about you, Mary/^ 

Then, as she turns round and sees Mary^s face, with a 
start, 

“ Why, what is the matter, child 


244 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


CHAPTEE XXXIIL 

THE FORTRESS ENTERED. 

Mrs. Neale ^s quiet indifference — which seems so strange 
to them until they discover that by a fortunate combination 
of circumstances neither she nor her husband have heard 
of the outbreak until that very moment; it was fortunate, 
for had she heard of it she would most assuredly have 
rushed into the station, and so, most probably, into the 
jaws of death — is now turned to trembling horror, as she 
listens to their rapidly poured-forth narrative of the events 
of the afternoon. She seems about to faint. But she 
steadies herself, as her husband calls out to her, “ We have 
mucii to do, Ann, much to arrange, in a most surprising- 
way. 

She is also aroused from her swoon of horror and appre- 
hension by having to take thought for others. 

When Mrs. Dyke finds her husband is not there, she falls 
into a fit of hysterical weeping. Mrs. Neale tries to soothe 
and comfort her. Nor is there time now to give way to 
emotion of any kind, for they have to prepare to move into 
the old godown, the agreed-on place of refuge, as rapidly 
as they can. A bullock-cart is ordered to the door. The 
things to be put into it are got together —bedding, food, 
lineti, plate; the chest that holds the money and deeds and 
other papers. The girls hastily put together their little 
stock of valuables. Mrs. Neale is searching hastily for her 
precious things — hidden carefully away — not gems nor 
jewels, but things far more precious to her than they — 
memorials of dead people and dead times — the little packet, 
so eagerly searched for, that contains the flowers that John 
gave her on that sweet summer evening, long ago, when 
they were engaged — the packet, laid in such deep conceal- 
ment, that holds a tiny pair of shoes belonging to the little, 
feet that once walked a short time on the earth. 

Chloe wrings her hands as she gazes distractedly at the 
pretty articles of her. trousseau scattered here and there 
about the rooms. 

The servants rush about; the time for moving with quiet 
footsteps and speaking with bated breath has gone by. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


■ 245 


Sir! sir!” cries the bearer to Mr. Neale. 

What is it?” 

‘‘ Shall I take your dress boots?’^ 

D— n the dress boots !^^ 

Dacres has raised the question whether they should go 
into the old godown at all, whether they should not rather 
make for Agra; urges the latter course with hot persistency. 

‘‘ We could get there by to-morrow morning.” 

“ Not with the carriages,” says Steele. 

By to-morrow evening. We could pass the day in a 
mdngo grove. ^ ^ 

‘‘ Not without being discovered.” 

“But here we shall be like rats in a trap. We must be 
taken. Four of us can not defend a big place like that. ” 

“ I shall take my shikaree in with me,” says Neale. 

He is a first-rate shot. ” 

“ Take a nigger in with us!” cries Dacres. “ That 
would be madness. Let us make for Agra. Let us get as 
far away as we can from these d d ^poys at once. ” 

“We shall write to Agra for help. We may have to 
hold the godown for one day only. The Sepoys may not 
care to come nearhs at all,” says Steele. 

“ In the godown we shall be like rats in a trap. In the 
open we should have some chance of escape, at all events, 
supposing we were attacked. 

“ Those on horseback might, not the women or chil- 
dren,” answers Steele, with an indignant glance. “ Be- 
sides, the godown is the appointed place of rendezvous. 
The other people of the station, Zouch and his wife. Saw- 
yer, Dyke, Bird, will all be making for it; will help us to 
defend it. ” 

“ They may all be dead for what we know. We are 
alive.” 

“ We do not know that they are,” says Steele, with another 
indignant glance. “We are losing time in this discussion.” 

“ I go into the godown,” says Neale, decisively. 

“We must be taken. We shall be like rats in a trap,” 
cries Dacres, passionately. 

Two important matters have to be attended to. The 
first is to send in notice of their situation and an appeal for 
help to Agra. Forcle writes one letter, Neale writes an- 
other. They are intrusted to two different messengers who 
are to proceed by separate routes. Neale is sure he can 


24(3 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


rely on the fidelity of the men. They have promise of 
heavy reward, to be paid the moment the letters reach Agra. 
The next is to arm themselves. Lucky is it that Neale 
has always been so fond of sport, and has so many batteries 
of first-class guns, adapted for different kinds of service. 
Each of them has soon a trusty rifle in his hand. 

“ You will send all the guns into the godown — smooth- 
bores and all — they will be of as much service as the 
rifles,^-’ says Steele. 

‘‘ Yes, and they are too good to lose. 

‘‘You have plenty of amunitionr’^ 

“ Plenty. 

“ Send it all in. Plenty of lead?’’ 

“Yes.” 

“ Send it all in,” again cries Steele; “ and do not forget 
the bullet-molds.” 

“ Dinner is on the table, sir!” announces the old khans- 
aman. 

They go into the dining-room, but do not sit down; few 
of them can eat, though Steele urges them to remember 
Captain Dalgetty’s advice, and lay in provender while they 
can. Guy and Ethel are the only gay ones; the long drive 
through the cooler evening air, the meat and drink, have 
revived them; they almost begin to enjoy this' adventure- 
how often have they lost themselves in the garden in search 
of an adventure! The men enjoy the refreshment — very 
great in that weather — of a long draught of Bass’s beer. 
They can not persuade Mrs. Dyke to drink even a little 
wine and water. At last Mrs. Neale gets her to take a 
mouthful. 

“ Sir! sir!” cries a servant, running into the room, “ the 
men of Dibiapore and Nepulda,” naming two neighboring 
villages, “ have risen up and are marching on the factory. ’^ 

“Sir! sir!” cries the old bearer, running in. 

“ What is it?” cries Mr. Neale, hastily. 

“ Sir, the goatherd wants to know what he is to do about 
the goats.” 

“ Confound you for an old fool!” 

They are soon moving with the bullock-cart and a group 
of servants carrying things down the long avenue leading 
to the gate- way, beyond which lie the other buildings, the 
vats and wells and godowns, which make up Hajigunje 
Factory. All is quiet within the grounds. But when they 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 247 

near the gate-way they hear a sudden sound; the deep 
throbbing of the Indian war-drum; it is answered by the 
rattle of smaller drums; then arises the shrill, dissonant 
bray of trumpets and shawms; the startled pea-fowl begin 
to scream; the dogs bark in Ihe villages; the jackals howl 
across the plain; the void ear of night is filled with horrid 
sounds. The fortress-like godown rises like a rock at the 
margin of the sea-like plain which stretches away as far as 
the eye can reach. They make for it with no lagging foot- 
steps. They rush in at the open gate-way. 

When Hajigunje Factory had been first established life 
and property were by no means secure in its vicinity. The 
Englishman who had founded it had taken up his abode in 
the cool mausoleum, with its pleasant surrounding of trees. 
But he had built his office and storehouse, where he kept 
his records and money, his indigo and his valuable cattle, 
and in which the persons of himself and his family might 
also, on occasion, be safely stowed away, after the fashion 
of the little forts or keeps which studded the country-side 
around. As time went on the need for a strong and defen- 
sible place of shelter lessened. English rule produced se- 
curity — one advantage it certainly has conferred on the 
country. But not far from this portion of the I)odb, at 
the foot of the Himalayas, extend great belts of forest into 
which the cattle stolen from it can be driven, and where 
they find easy concealment. The crime of cattle-lifting was 
therefore one which had still continued to fiourish here. 
And so when the old godown had ceased to be needed for 
the safety of the family it continued to be needed for the 
safety of the cattle. The gates had continued to be care- 
fully closed every evening and had not been allowed to rust 
on their hinges. They were now put together very rapidly; 
and not only are the chains put up and the bolts shot into 
their places, but the great, massive wooden bar is lifted up 
and its ends dropped into the sockets in the masonry on 
either side, as has not happened for many a day before. 
Only one half of the little wicket is left open. 

Of his twenty-four servants Mr. Neale can at this mo- 
ment dispense with the services of twenty-three. The cook 
is the only man they want in with them, but he is a Mo- 
hammedan, and they dare not take in one of the inimical 
race. Mr. Neale determines to keep the old bearer in the 
godown. He is a Hindoo; an old and faithful servant; he 


248 


THE TOUCHSTOlSrE OF PEKIL. 


can at all events cook ddl* and chupatees,f and boil the 
kettle for them. So while, despite the protestations and 
eager offers of continued service of many of them, all the 
others who have accompanied them are ordered to clear 
out of the place, Mr. Neale tells the old bearer that he may 
remain. 

“ Oherisher of the Poor! Exalted One!^^ says the old 
man, clasping his hands. “You are my father and my 
mother. I am yours, body and soul. Have I not eaten of 
your salt these many years? Am I not ready to follow 
your lordship all over the world? Nevertheless, as your 
highness is aware, I have my wife and family with me here. 
They will be very much frightened. Therefore if your 
clemency will forgive this, your honoris most faithful slave 
and servant, who is ready to die for you, he would rather 
not remain in here.^"’ 

“ Go,■’^says Mr. Neale, with a little smile. 

Seetul, the shikaree, looks on his remaining with his 
master simply as a matter of course. It is not the first 
conjuncture, with life or death in the balance, in which 
they have stood together side by side. He is a little wiry 
man with a face made out of a walnut-shell, and a body 
made out of whipcord; belongs to some aboriginal tribe 
into which caste prejudices have not yet penetrated; is 
equally ready to eat anything or nothing; stanch, simple- 
hearted, fearless. 

The servants dismissed, they are about to close the wicket 
altogether, when they see a group of men — the moon has 
now risen — making for the gate-way across the open ground 
in front of it. 

“ They are Sepoys," cries Dacres, letting his rifle, which 
he has loaded, as have all the others theirs, fall into the 
hollow of his left hand. 

“ Who comes there shouts Steele. 

ird. 



“ Yes," replies not he, but Sawyer. 

Eight heartily are the new-comers greeted; for their own 
sake and for the accession of strength they bring to the 
garrison. The party consists of the two Englishmen, the 
old subahdar, old Bhola Misr, and a Sepoy. They all pass 


* Da], lentils. 


f Clmpatees, unleavened cakes. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 249 

in at the wicket, but the moment they have done so Dacres 
turns round on the two natives and cries out, How dare 
you come in here? Are you not ashamed, afraid, to come 
near your officers again? You pigs! You scoundrels 

The men are silent. 

“ Did not your son shoot the colonel, Bhola Misr?^^ 

“ Sir!^^ said the old man, taking olf his turban and lay- 
ing it in the dust at their feet, ‘‘it is true. True that he 
has brought that disgrace on me; true that he killed my dear 
old master, and the old man lifted up his voice and wept. 

“ D 4 old hypocrite says Dacres. 

“ My life is ruined and spoiled. I care not when I die. 
Sirs! had it not been for this deed I should have gone away 
to-day to my home, for I am too old to be of service to the 
state. I should have awaited there the restoration of the 
sovereignty of the, English. But how could I go away after 
this? I have need to show that I am faithful. If he has 
taken the life of the colonel, I must save the lives of others, 
even at the risk of losing my own.'’' 

“Most undoubtedly," says Sawyer, in his solemn way, 
“ my extrication from a position of extreme danger and 
difficulty was solely due to the fidelity and self-devotion 
and courage of Bhola Misr. In short, he saved my life." 

“ He behaved like a brick," cries Bird, whose voice has 
recovered its light cheeriness. “ Were it not for him we 
should not be here now; you would be without our most 
valuable help and assistance." 

“ What is your intention now?" says Steele to the old 
man. “ Do you wish to remain with us?" 

“ Yes, sir! for life or for death." 

After some hot opposition on the part of Dacres it is set- 
tled to keep Bhola Misr with them; he will be a help to 
them in many ways; their numbers need augmenting; but 
the Sepoy, though he has given the same proofs of fidelity, 
is put out, not without some violence on the part of Dacres. 

“He is my son-in-law," said Bhola Misr; “ you could 
have trusted him fully. But the result of this madness of 
the Sepoys will be that you Englishmen will never put faith 
in them again." 

The wicket is closed and barred. Bird and Sawyer have 
come empty-handed. They are supplied with fire-arms. 
Steele runs up to the flat roof, makes a rapid inspection of 
it, and comes down again. 


250 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF EERIE. 

‘‘ We must have a couple of men on' watch up there 
throughout the night/^ says Steele; “ one will be enough 
in the day-time. The watch will be relieved every three 
hours. You and your shikaree, Neale; Bhola Misr and I; 
Forde and Sawyer; Dacres and Bird. That will be the di- 
vision. Dacres! will you and Bird go up at once. That 
is the staircase; to the left of the gate-way."’^ 

As the two young fellows move across the court-yard they 
pass the corner where the women and children are standing. 
These come forward and greet Bird eagerly. Mis “ Thank 
you! Thank you!^^ rings out cheerily as he receives their 
hearty congratulations. His bright smile is on his face as 
usual, he laughs his usual joyous laugh; but laugh and 
smile both die away when he sees Mrs. Hyke, who has been 
sitting apart, in sorrowful solitude, coming toward him; 
and he hangs his head as she asks, 

“ Where is my husband, Mr. Bird? Has he not come 
with you?'’^ 

“ I— I left him at the kutcherry,^"’ he says, in faltering 
accents. 

Left him at the kutcherry! You too! You all left 
him at the kutcherry — 

I wanted to stay with him. I begged of him to let me 
stay with him. I assure you I did/^ cried the young fellow, 
eagerly. But he would not let me do so. He ordered me 
away.-’^ 

“Just what Mr. Forde said,^^ exclaims Mrs. Dyke, bit- 
terly. Then, with a cry of “ Oh, my husband! Oli, rny 
poor husband!’’ she bursts into a passion of tears and 
rushes wildly away. 

A widow’s tears are often more for herself "than the lost 
one; more for the lost provider of comforts than the lost 
man. Of such kind, indeed, had been Mrs. Dyke’s mourn- 
ing for her first husband. She had been very glad when 
she married the member of council, and ^e was very sorry 
when the member of council died. Even with regard te 
John Dyke, fine man, good fellow, thorough gentleman as 
he was, her chief thought when she married him, and after- 
ward, had been in connection with his official position. One 
might almost have said in both cases, in the first one cer- 
tainly, that it was the entry in the civil list that she loved. 
But this sudden and terrible shock had shaken from her 
shoulders the social and official mantle in which she had so 


THE TOUCH STOISTE OF PERIL. 


251 


closely wrapped herself all her life. It awakened the 
woman within her. She forgot the “ magistrate and col- 
lector/" she reniembered her husband. She thought only 
of John Dyke himself — the i^an; she remembered only his 
fine, manly presence, his open, genial temper, his kindness 
of heart; his thorough gentlenianliness, his chivalrous de- 
votion and unbounded generosity to herself, and she wept 
for him as for her lost friend and husband. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE FIRST ATTACK. 

When Bird and Dacres mount up to the roof and take 
post beside the gate-way they understand why they have 
been left unmolested so long. Yells and shouts from the 
old mausoleum inform them that the insurgent villagers 
are busy there still. 

As has been said already, the “old godown"" had been 
built after the manner of a keep or fort. It was four- 
square and had a single central court-yard round which ran 
closed rooms or open verandas, two stories in height; out- 
side the building presented, on all faces, except at the gate- 
way, up to the full height of the lower story, a plain, 
smooth surface of wall, unbroken by any opening; it was 
only in the upper story that there were any windows, and 
these were few and small and iron-barred. At each of the 
four corners was a circular bastion, while round the whole 
building ran a ditch or fosse, which had been, filled up, 
however, just in front of the gate-way. The bastions com- 
pletely enfiladed the flanks of the building, and the two 
front ones tjoihmanded the front of the gate-way. The roof 
of the building was a flat, terraced one, and thus afforded 
a means of communication all around. A low parapet 
wall ran round the edge of the roof and round the bastions. 
The gate-way rose up to the full height of the building, and 
was crowned, as usual, by an ornamental crenalated para- 
pet w^all. 

Steele, too, has mounted on to the roof again, and walks 
slowly round it, making careful observation of the ground 
on all sides. The little fortress has been well placed. On 
all four sides of it lies the flat, open plain, running away on 
two sides into the far distance, on the third up to the vats 


252 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF UERIL. 


and new godowns and other buildings, about a furlong off, 
and on the fourth up to the cactus-crowned mound and 
ditch which form the boundary of the mausoleum grounds, 
about two hundred yards away. It can not thus be ap- 
proached unobserved. When Steele gets up to the gate- 
way and is talking to Dacres and Bird they see a man run- 
ning toward the gate, and, challenging him, they find it is 
the Sepoy they have excluded. The men from the mauso- 
leum are now marching on the little fortress; they have 
heard that Mr. Neale has removed his treasure-chest into 
it; that he has only three other Englishmen with him; they 
expect to carry it with a rush. Steele hurries down into the 
court-yard. 

“ We must all go on to the roof,^’ says Neale, when he 
hears the news. 

“ No,’^ says Steele, quietly, ‘‘ I will only take Bhola 
Misr up. You others must remain down here and guard 
the wicket. Eoll that cart up against it. Pile those sacks 
up against it too.^^ 

At the top of the gate- way again, and Steele places Bird 
and Dacres in one of the bastions flanking it, while he and 
Bhola Misr take post in the other. The parapet walls, 
being of the ordinary height, afford them shelter only when 
they crouch down behind them; and this Steele bids Bird 
and Dacres do. Hardly have they settled themselves down 
when they see a sinuous line of flambeaus and torches wind- 
ing along the avenue through the mausoleum grounds. It 
reaches the gate-way. Pouring through the gate-way on 
to the open plain, the long, narrow stream becomes a 
broad sheet, as the water passing out through an open- 
ing in a dike spreads out and moves onward to over- 
whelm and destroy. With loud shouts and yells the crowd 
makes straight for the gate- way. The flambeaus flash on 
dark faces and dark forms, on sword and shield, on match- 
lock and lance, on iron-bound club. The crowd is brought 
to a sudden stand a little way from the gate-way, by Steele 
rising up in the left-hand bastion, and shouting out, 

“ Who are you? What do you want?^^ 

Then from fifty mouths goes up the word, ‘‘ Feringhee,"^ 
and then it is connected with many an opprobrious epithet. 

“ Go back!^^ cries Steele. ‘‘ If you come any nearer we 
fire.-’^ 

The only reply is a yell, and (lie crowd heaves forward. 


TH^l TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


253 


The danger now is that it will throw itself with full weight 
and collective impulse on the wicket and burst it open, car- 
ry it away. This, indeed, is the purpose, for in the band 
are many men who have forced their way by violence into 
many a dwelling-place before. But Steele has measured 
the distance well; he has given strict injunctions to the 
othe^rs that no one is to fire until he gives the word, np one 
to rise up from behind the parapet, only kneel there; he 
allows the foremost line of men almost to reach the edge of 
the filled-up portion of the ditch; then he shouts out, 
‘‘Firer^ 

Four flashes, four reports, shrieks and cries, and the roll- 
ing human wave loses its solidity, breaks up into spray. 
The attacking force attenuates, disperses; for though there 
are in it many fearless men accustomed to fights and frays, 
it is composed chiefly of cultivators, not accustomed to be 
shot at, and who prefer to kill and plunder with ease and 
safety. Two men only keep the ground; flat on their 
backs, with the moonlight playing on their upturned faces 
and bare breasts and bellies and thighs; with their toes 
pointing straight up to the sky. The band soon reforms, 
though at a respectful distance, and the matchlock men 
open a fire on the gate-way. Dacres is most anxious to 
reply. 

“ No,^^ says Steele. “We must not waste our ammu- 
nition.^^ 

After a time the firing ceases. The crowd withdraws. 
There is evidently a change of purpose. The men divide 
themselves into groups which take up their position at dif- 
ferent points facing the gate-way. Watch-fires are lighted, 
not for the sake of warmth — the circumambient air supplies 
that sufficiently — but to serve as gathering points, to give 
lights for the hookahs. They have sat down before the 
fortress in form. 

Steele returns to the court-yard, and relates what has 
happened. 

“We shall not be molested any more to-night, he says. 
“ What will happen to-morrow morning we shall see. We 
had better now make our arrangements for going to bed. " 

The heat in the court-yard, not a large one, is stifling. 
The buildings all around it are still — though now near mid- 
night — giving olf the heat they have been absorbing during 
the long, fiery da3^ The stench from the dung-heaps, from 


254 


THE TOUCHSTOi^^E OF PERIL. 


the hides and leather buckets and indigo-cloths stored in 
the verandas, is overwhelming. The mosquitoes are a ter- 
rible plague. They are in swarms. They are excited to a 
point of madness by the richer blood, protected by a thin- 
ner skin, now brought within their reach. 

“ You must be tired, my boy,^^ says Steele to Guy Forde, 
who stood at the edge of the veranda, between the men and 
the women as it were, putting his hand upon his slioulder. 

'‘kh. Captain Steele,^^ whispers the boy, ‘‘did you 
shoot any of the savages just nowr’^ 

“ It is time for us all to go to bed, proclaims Captain 
Steele. 

“ There are no beds to go to,^^ said Mrs. Neale. “ We 
must all sleep on the floor. 

“ And a very good place, too, this weather, says Steele. 

“ But we can not sleep down here, in the midst of this 
horrible heat and smell. 

* “ Are there no rooms upstairs that would do for you to 
Seep in? If Miss Neale will come iip with me we might 
see. 

Steele takes a little earthenware lamp from the niche in 
the wall in which it is burning, and he and Mary mount 
one of the staircases leading to the upper story. They go 
through all the rooms, but as these have not been opened 
or cleaned for a long time the air in itiein is close and foul, 
the floors on which they would have to lie very dirty. 

“I am afraid, says Steele, sorrowfully, “that the 
verandas below, bad as they are, would be better than any 
of these rooms. 

“ It is so horrible down there, says Mary, with a shud- 
der; “ if one could only stand here all night, and she 
presses her face to the little window, and draws in the 
cooler, fresher, outer air, as they wflo have come through 
the fiery desert drink of the fountain in the oasis. 

“ I have it,^' says Steele. “ You must sleep on the roof. 
There is no reason why you should not. There is no danger 
from the night air; no other danger.’^ 

“ It would be delightful,^ ^ cries Mary, inhaling a long, 
deep draught, continuing to inhale it. “I have felt below 
as if I were choking. I could hardly draw my breath. It 
made me feel quite faint and sick.^^ 

There is a quaver, a very slight quaver, in her voice. 
Steele raises the little lamp and holds it up at the level of 


THE TOUCH STOKE OF PERIL. 


255 


their faces. He fixes his eyes on Marys's face, and she sees 
in them a great compassion and tenderness. 

Yes; you shall sleep on the roof. It will be cool and 
pleasant there now. A cool, refreshing sleep will brace 
you up.^^ 

His voice was very soft and tender. He had a peculiarly 
sweet voice, delicate and refined in tone and accent, mth a 
varying cadence. (How plainly do the long-silent accents 
of my dead friend’s voice fall again, as I write, upjfc my 
ear. ) 1 

I feel revived already at the mere thought of it,” cries 
Mary. 

They have got to the head of the stairs and are about to 
descend, when Steele stops and says, 

“ We may have a bad day of it to-morrow; from the heat 
and in other ways. I want you to bear up bravely. Miss 
Neale. To set a good example to the others. Keep they 
spirits np. Despondency would be the worst thing possilJte 
at a time like this. ^ f 

I was only feeling a little faint because of the gretit 
heat of this room. ” 

I know. You have a brave spirit. You will not 
quail. But others will, most likely, be despondent and de- 
pressed. I look to v^ to counteract this. I look to you 
to be not only cal'm and self-possessed, but also hopeful 
and cheerful. You will thus keep up the spirits of the 
others.” 

“ You may,” says Mary, holding out her hand in a boy- 
ish sort of way, as if to ratify a bargain. 

Steele takes it quickly, and drops it suddenly, and rubs 
the tip of his nose, in great confusion. Did he think he 
had snatched at it some%hat too eagerly, pressed it some- 
what too hard. 

“ You can not make use of any of the rooms above,” he 
says to Mrs. Neale, when they reach the veranda. “ They 
have not been opened or cleaned for so- long. You must 
sleep upon the roof. ” 

“ Sleep upon the roof! But that would be so dangerous 
if there is any more firing!” 

‘‘There will not be. You can run down at once if 
there is. Where is the bedding? Let us take it up.” 

At this season of the year much bedding is not needed; 
you want nothing to cover with. But they can make up 


256 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


three beds only, and these are appropriated to the use of 
the three elder ladies — Mrs. Dyke, Mrs. Forde, Mrs. Neale. 
The others must lie on a carpet. This, with the beds, is 
spread on the roof at the back of the building, on the side 
opposite the gate-way. But when the ladies and children 
go' up Mrs. Neale will not accept the arrangement made 
for her. She prefers to sleep by the side of her daughters, 
and Mrs. Graham must have one of the beds. 

ft is very hard,'' says Chloe, as she sinks down on the 
piece of drugget. 

It would be harder if there were none," cries Steele, 
with a smile, as he puts down some bundles of clothing he 
has brought up to serve as pillows — “ Why, this is like the 
sleeping on deck on board the steamer, which we all agreed 
was so pleasant. " 

The men retire, and the women and children settle them- 
selves down in their places. It is hard lying for most of 
them. The drugget is thin; the roof of masonry. But 
the air flowing over the great barren plain is so cool and 
pleasant at this midnight hour, it feels so pure and fresh* 
after the hot, fetid air of the court-yard beloW, they are so 
worn out with the horrors and fatigues and sorrows of the 
day, the deep silence that reigns around them is so sooth- 
ing, that the happy oblivion of sleep descends upon them 
all very soon; even upon the wife who has been bereft of 
her husband, even upon the mother who has been bereft of 
her children. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE FIRST DAY OF THE SIEGE. — MORNING. 

When Mary Neale's senses first begin to emerge, strug- 
glingly, from that deep oblivion, she feels as if she were in 
a dream; that she lies on a rock far out at sea, with the 
chill air from the surrounding open space of water blowing 
over her. When she slowly opens her eyes she misses the 
accustomed roof and walls of her bedroom; the walls and 
roof of her present bedroom are very far away. Then the 
remembrance of the events of the day before rushes over 
her in a flood; she sits up, and above her is the fast-red- 
dening sky, beside her the recumbent figures of her bed- 
fellows. Her eyes wander over the flat plain inimitably 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


257 


( 


spread beneath her. Then comes over he^ an overpowering 
desire for water; water to wash with, water to drink; the 
former as much as the latter; she feels so horribly grimy 
and sticky. She runs down the stairs, and, meeting her fa- 
ther, with whom is Captain Steele, at the foot of them, she 
kisses him and asks, ‘‘ Where is the water kept? Where 
can one wash?^^ Her simple question seems to have a 
most disturbing effect. 

“ Well, the fact is,^^ says Captain Steele, “ that you can 
not wash. We find we have hardly enough water to drink. 

Ho water, and on a day like this. The news horrifies 
her. 

She learns how Steele, coming down earlier on the same 
errand as herself, had thought it best, before using it, to 
find out how much water there was; had discovered that 
all sent in from the mausoleum had been used up in the 
course of the night; that all they had to depend on now 
were the water- jars in the rooms of the servants who slept 
in the old godown. Luckily these were full; but there 
were only four of them, three big ones and a small one, 
and how far would these go among fifteen people? Mary 
does not hear how the communication of this intelligence 
had nearly driven her father mad. He had almost foamed 
at the mouth. He had heaped curses on himself. That he 
should not have attended to this! What an unforgivable 
omission! W^hat an inexcusable neglect! “I could have 
ordered in twenty, thirty, forty jars of water. The night 
before he and Steele had carefully reviewed the situation. 
Their position was a strong one; the walls high, the bastions 
well placed, the gate massive; they had within those walls 
eight men, all accustomed to the use of fire-arms, some of 
them first-class shots; they had good guns, plenty of am- 
munition; around the fort was a clear, open space; Mr. 
Keale had sent in a large supply of fiour and lentils; there 
was plenty of fire- wood. “ Why, we can hold out here for 
days,^^ Neale had cried, exultingly. “ They could carry 
the place by storm if they did not mind how many men 
they lost; but that they would mind. We should bowl 
them over like rabbits in the open there. 

And then, after all this self-congratulation, to find that 
the strength of their position, the superiority of their 
weapons and their valor, might avail them nothing, simply 
for the want of water. 

9 


^58 


THE TOUCHSTOIS’E OF PERIL. 


“ By God! it is maddening!"^ cried Neale, clinching his 
fists. 

“The only thing to be done now, said Steele, after 
Mary had joined them, “ is to make the water go as far as 
possible. 'We must hoard it. W-e may be relieved to-night 
or to-morrow. But we do not know what the state of affairs 
at Agra, is. We may have to hold out longer. We must 
dole the water out.^'’ 

“ I can never forgive myself, cried Neale. 

“ It came on you so suddenly — the news of the outbreak. 
You had not much time to make your preparations,^^ said 
Steele, soothingly. “ But what must be done now is to 
reduce the expenditure of the water to a minimum. We 
must put ourselves on the shortest commons. Give it out 
only in fixed quantities — lock it up. ^^ 

“ Surely there is no need for that,^^ says Mary, some- 
what indignantly. “ No one is likely to want to take more 
than their share. 

“ Nevertheless it is necessary that we should make sure. 
Let us move the jars into this room. The door locks. 
This is done. Mary can not help thinking that Steele^s 
movements in this matter are indications of a miserly spirit, 
A calculation is made, a daily ration fixed upon. Steele 
hands Mary the key. 

“ You must undertake the distribution. And you must 
not give anyone a drop more than the quantity fixed upon.^^ 

“ No one is likely to ask it.-’^ 

‘ ‘ I am not so sure of that. And you must bear in mind 
the importance of your duty, one on which the lives of every 
one in this place may depend. You are the only one I 
think to whom we could intrust it. Why, your mother, 
he says, smiling, “ could never resist the appeals made to 
her, especially of the children. 

“ You choose me because of my hardness of heart. 

“ Quite so. You are very hard-hearted. And now. Miss 
Neale, shall we see about choosing a room for you ladies 
upstairs?’^ 

They fix on the room above which they have slept; it 
runs the whole width of the court-yard, and has two win- 
dows and two doors. It, and the two closets on either side 
of it, are appropriated to the use of the ladies and children, 
“ And a capital gynoecoeum, or zenana, they make,^^ says 
Steele. 


THE TOUCHSTOJn’E OF PERIL. 


259 


And this shall be the dining-room/ ^ he cries, when • 
they return down-stairs and fix on a room in which to take 
their meals. 

“ Dining-room! What bosh/^ growls Dacres. We 
might have been half-way to Agra by this.^^ 

And then they turned their attention to the subject of 
the cooking of the meals. 

‘‘ I suppose we must get Steele to cook for us/^ says 
Mr. Neale, “ though he is one of our fighting-men.'’^ 

“ Oh, no; Mrs. Oraham,^’ says Steele. “ She can cook, 
of course, and will not, I am sure, object to do so. 

Mrs. Graham is asked and willingly consents. 

A cooking-place is soon run up at one end of the veranda, 
Mrs. Graham is soon busy with her task, in which Mary 
helps her. The early morning cup of tea, which to so 
many seems an absolute necessary of life, can not now be 
had; there is tea enough, but no water; but as they know, 
how strongly the want of that refreshment will be felt, how 
great the craving for it is, it is determined to have the first 
meal of the day as soon as possible. 

The sun is shooting his arrows from a very short way 
above the horizon, but they are sufficiently keen to send 
down most of the sleepers from the roof. They gather to- 
gether in the corner of the court-yard where the culinary 
operations are in progi-ess. The bubbling pots, the boiling 
kettle, form great centers of attraction. The thoughts 
connected with them drive away even the apprehensions of 
an immediate attack, which had assailed so many of them 
immediately on waking, so that they had begun to strain 
their ears to hear the sound of yells and cries, and the 
crackle of musketry, such as they had heard for a fearful, 
if short, time the evening before. But meat and drink are 
also matters of life and death. And so they gaze at the 
bubbling pot, the boiling kettle, the chupatese, or ban- 
nocks, baking on the griddle. Mr. Neale is informing his 
wife of the arrangements that have been made. 

“ Having some tea, I suppose, cries Dacres, the last to 
descend from the roof, as he approaches the spot. “ I 
shall be very glad of a cup of tea. My lips are quite 
parched. My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. 
But I must have a wash first. Where is the jar of water 
that was here last night 

The lack of the precious fluid has not yet been made 


260 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

public. Steele sees the look of distress on Neale-’s face; 
the deprecatory look that has taken the place of the usual 
somewhat self-confident one. He knows how keenly, 
poignantly, the master of Hajigunje Factory feels his sad 
omission. How can he but do so, seeing that it may pos- 
sibly be the cause of bringing evils worse than death on 
those dearest to him. 

They shall never fall into their hands alive,^^ he had 
said to Steele the evening before, in his moments of fierce 
agony and self-reproach. He, Steele, understands how 
painful it will be to I^eale to make the fact public. He 
determines to do this himself and seizes the present oppor- 
tunity. 

“It is locked up,'\he says? “We can not wash our 
hands and faces and have our early cup of tea this morning. 
It is only what might happen to one, on a journey. It is a 
slight discomfort. The fact is, so much of the water was 
used up last night that we have now to be very careful of 
what remains. We can not have any to wash with and 
very little to drink. 

“ What! no water cries Hacres, in a tone of horror 
and dismay that finds an echo in the hearts of those around 
him. “ Then we are done for. You would insist on our 
coming in here; you know you would. We might have 
been half-way to Agra by this time. We could have passed 
the day in a mango grove. We should at all events have 
had water to drink. 

“ Hush, hush, my dear fellow!^^ cries Steele. “ It is 
only a day^s discomfort. 

“ Discomfort! rather !^^ cries Dacres, passionately. 
“ Discomfort! when we may have to give ourselves up or 
die of thirst. 

“-There is no fear of that,^^ says Steele, quickly. “ It 
is wise, however, to take precautions and be on the safe side. 

“ And now,^^ seeing that Dacres is about to burst forth, 
again, “ while the breakfast is preparing, you and Bird go 
up and bring the bedding down and put it into the ladies^ 
room. Miss Neale will show you which it is. 

Soinehow Steele^s softly spoken orders were obeyed as 
quickly as if he had thundered them out with a volley of 
oaths. _ 

It is a useful distraction to the ladies that they have to 
go up and see to the arrangement of this room. It is not 


THE TOUCHSTONE OE PEEIL. 


261 


SO to them all. Poor Mrs. Dyke se^his completely stunned 
by the terrible blow fortune has dealt her. It is with diffi- 
culty that they can get her to move from one place to an- 
other. Bird had led her tenderly up to the roof the night 
before; he now supports her tenderly down; helps her ten- 
derly up the staircase, leads her gently by the hand to the 
pallet that has been prepared for her in a corner of the 
room. She throws herself down upon it and turns her face 
to the wall. Poor lady! the dust lies thick on her large 
face and the tears have worn deep furrows through it. 

The breakfast is a somewhat different affair from the 
luxurious meal to which most of them had sat down the 
morning before. Where were now the dainty appointments 
of the table, the numerous dishes? But there was really 
there all that they needed; an abundance of unleavened 
cakes, hot and cold; plenty of lentil porridge; and above 
all, though the goats could not now be brought up to the 
door, and the milk be brought frothing in, there was the 
divine restorer — tea. And probably most of them enjoyed 
that meal more than many a former dainty one. They 
were fainting from hunger and thirst. It was marvelous 
how their faces brightened and their spirits rose as they eat 
and drank, 

‘‘ There is only one chair, and you must take it,^ says 
Steele, placing that very ancient and decrepit article of 
furniture at the head of "the little, old, rickety office-table, 
besmeared with ink, on which, in curious contrast, stood 
Mrs. Neale^s beautiful silver tea-pot. 

“ I am afraid I have neglected my household duties this 
morning, and left them to be performed by others, says 
Mrs. Neale, in her gentle, sweet voice. “ But do you know 
I was almost afraid to open my eyes this morning, tliinking 
of the dangers to which my girls had been exposed yester- 
day. They have told me how much they were indebted to 
you. Captain Steele.^’’ 

Not at all! not at all!^’’ says Steele, rubbing the end of 
his nose. “ And I think we had better eat the national 
food in the national way. It will save the trouble of wash- 
ing up;^^ and he takes one of the cakes, and gets Mrs. 
Graham to put on it a dollop of the lentil porridge; and 
then, taking up another cake, his meal and table equipment 
are both complete. They have not tea-cups for all, but 
they are glad enough to drink the steaming, aromatic 


362 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


draught, the modern liPctar, out of anything that will hold 
it. 

Never were the cheering effects of that beverage more 
clearly exhibited. The breakfast that had begun gloomily 
ends almost hilariously — with some, but not with all. 

‘"If 4;here is one thing that I hate, it is dal/^ growls 
Dacres; “ and if there is one thing I detest, it is chupatees."’^ 

‘‘ Why, in Australia they live foT months on damper and 
tea,^’ says Steele. ‘‘ I consider we' have had a most excel- 
lent meal. 

Every one to his taste,^^ replies Dacres. But I see 
there is balm in Gilead. I see bottles of soda, and I see a 
bottle of brandy. 

“ Well, the drinking of that, too, has been restricted, 
says Steele. “ There is only a little brandy in the bottle, 
and' a few bottles of soda-water, and so it has been deter- 
mined to keep them in case any one is ill.^^ 

“ Then I am sure to be ill.''^ 

“ Seriously — they are to be treated as medicine — only 
given when ordered by Sawyer. 

^ ‘ I am sure he will prescribe a dose for me about twelve 
o^ clock. 

Tt is to be kept strictly for the use of the ladies. 

“ We do not want it,^^ says Chloe, eagerly. 

“ You may. Remember the place you have to pass the 
day in. It must only be used by Sawyer ^s orders. 

The meal over, they gather together and recall again 
the adventures of the day before; listen again to Bird 
andSawyer^s account of their escape; conjecture again what 
may have been the fate of Major Zouch and his wife. 
Could they have escaped, or had they fallen victims? They 
prolong the talk as long as they can. They dwell on the* 
past to keep out the thoughts of the present. They talk 
to prevent themselves from thinking; to set aside that ex- 
pectation of the approach of the enemy which every mo- 
ment grows stronger. The more, as the moments go by, 
there are ears strained to catch the sounds of attack, to 
hear those on guard above shout out that the enemy is ap- 
proaching, the more do they repeat answered questions and 
return before given replies. 

Mary listens patiently, though setting him down in her 
mind for a fool, to Dr. Sawyer^s oft-repeated enumeration 
of his losses — the mahogany dining-table and the chiffoniers. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


263 


the ottoman and the conversation-couch. ‘‘ All gone 
now.^^ 

I had brought out a large outfit from home last year — 
from Thresher & Gleuny. Three dozen shirts — under- 
linen-^gauze vests — gauze — 

“ I must go and see if I can help Mrs. Graham/^ cries 
Mary, jumping up. 

They discuss, over and over again, the chances of the 
two messengers reaching Agra. But the talk can not be 
prolonged any longer. There are no waving punkas to 
cool them, to keep the mosquitoes off. They begin to 
move listlessly and aimlessly about — to brood. Then comes 
a distraction. 

I have just been thinking, Neale, says Captain Steele, 
‘‘ as the parapet wall round the roof is too low to afford 
protection, whether we should not put up a barricade or 
breast- work along it. ” 

“ All round the roof?^^ 

No, only where wanted. Come up, and I will show 

you. 

As has been mentioned before, on two sides of the little 
fortress, the north side and the west side, the flat, barren 
plain stretched away for miles, while on one of the other 
sides, the east, at a distance of about a furlong away, lay 
the other factory buildings; and on the remaining side, the 
south, the boundary mound and ditch of the mausoleum 
grounds ran about two hundred yards from it. The mound 
was exactly parallel to the side of the building, and the 
northwest corner of the inclosure, where the south and west 
mounds met, was very nearly opposite to the southwest 
bastion of the old godown. 

This rough sketch will explain the position. 

.A [] OUT- 


FLAT OPEN 


PLAIN 


□ BUILDINGS 



MOUND AND DITCH 


MAUSOLEliW grounds! 


thickly wooded. 


264 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


Steele points out how the south side is thus their only 
weak side; how, if an attack is made upon them, it must 
be on this side, because of the cover afforded by the thickly 
wooded grounds and the mound and ditch, a ready-made 
parallel; how a line of men placed behind the mound would 
sweep the roof, and make it impossible for the defenders to 
move about there; how they would at the same time enfi- 
lade the parapet above the gate-way, and so make a de- 
fense of the gate-way difficult. He proposes to run the 
breastwork along the parapet wall on the south and east 
faces, including the bastions, with a short return on the 
west face. He points out how the length of the work will 
not be very great because the gate-way occupies most of 
the width of the east face. 

‘‘ Good. Well thought of. It shall be done,^^ says 
■N'eale. I tell you what, Steele, I think it would be a 
good thing if you would take formal command of the gar- 
rison — so had they come to call themselves — I shall be 
happy to serve under you. 

‘‘If you wish it,^' says Steele, quietly. “I think it 
would be a good thing, as I am the senior officer here, and 
the other military men would obey me best.'^ 

When they return to the court-yard Neale announces . 
this arrangement, and the making of the breastwork is at 
once taken in hand. They have plenty of materials — employ 
packing-cases, barrels, bundles of fire-wood and brush-wood, 
bags of seeds. The ladies and children all help. They roll 
or carry the things to the foot of the stairs, the men carry 
them up to the roof. 

“ Give the girls a little exercise instead of their morning 
ride,^^ says Mrs. Neale, cheerfully, to Mary’s surprise; she 
had expected hinderance from her fearfulness rather than 
help from her cheerfulness. They begin the breastwork 
at the southwest corner. Trom the character of the mater- 
ials the work proceeds very rapidly. They have soon car- 
ried it to the bastion at the southeast corner. As Steele 
has directed that the bags of seeds shall be kept for the' 
work on the bastions, and their round is small, the breast- 
work round this bastion and the corresponding one pn the 
other side of the gate- way is completed very soon too, and 
they have only to finish the short lengths on either side of 
the gate-way, when the attention of the men on watch is 
awakened to the nature and purpose of the work. Steele 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 265 

is laying , one of the las^ bags when a matchlockman fires at 
him, and the bullet, passing between side and arm, inflicts 
a deep cut on the latter. The .blood spurts out, and dyes 
the sleeve of his shirt — the men have discarded jackets and 
coats — crimson from elbow to wrist. The women scream 
at the sight of it, as Steele descends into the courtyard. 

“It is nothing,’’^ he says, “ but I must get Sawver to 
bandage it. 

Guy gazes with eager, fearful eyes at this sign of that 
fighting of which he has read so much. Sawyer is sent 
for; he has been in attendance on poor Mrs. Dyke, who 
has been overpowered by the heat and her grief. He places 
Steele on an empty deal case, and proceeds to roll up the 
sleeve of the wounded arm; it is the left one. 

“ I wish I could be of help,^’ says Mrs. Neale, “ but I 
could never bear the; sight of blood; not even of a cut 
finger. I never could— 

Mary steps forward. 

“ I want some bandages,^-’ says Sawyer. 

She tears a long strip from the bottom of her dress. 

‘ ‘ J ust the very thing. Now take his hand, and hold the’ 
arm up.^^ 

Mary does so. She forms a new and different opinion of 
Sawyer as she sees the firm and yet tender, the rapid and 
skillful, way in which he binds up the wounded limb. She 
will not call him fool and donkey again. She meets Hacres 
shortly afterward. 

“ I suppose it was very hot up there in the sun,^-’ she^ 
says. 

“ Terribly. What humbug and nonsense it is going on 
as if we were ^ large garrison defending a fort. Building 
a breastwork! If we have no water to drink we must give 
ourselves up, breastwork or no breastwork. It was mad- 
ness to come in here. We should have been half-way to 
Agra by this time. But they would not take my advice. 


CHAPTER XXXVL 

. THE FIRST DAY OF THE SIEGE. — NOON. 

The earthly enemy came not, but the heavenly one now 
raged against them very fierce and terrible. The sun was 
now in the zenith, and poured his fiery arrows straight 


266 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

down upon them. There was no "shade or shadow in the 
small court-yard. Without, the hot air billowed and undu- 
lated over the flat, hard plain, and beat on the sides of the 
fortress, which rose up like a rock in the midst of a sea of 
fire. It was a day hotter than usual — a rigorous hot day. 
The heat, the glare, were terrible. The waves of heat 
and light, moving with such terrific swiftness, rushed 
ill through the 'openings of the eyes, and beat with mad- 
dening force within the dark caverns of the brain. The 
heat, the glare, the stench, produced an intolerable irrita- 
tion of the nerves. The beleaguered ones move restlessly 
about. They are driven into dark corners by the dazzling, 
blistering sunlight, driven out of them by the suffocating 
heat, by the torturing mosquitoes. They sink listlessly 
down. They become careless, forgetful of the coming of 
their foes. The heat is as a terrible weight pressing them 
down. They have been cast into the burning, fiery furnace. 

“ This is worse than the Black Hole of Calcutta,^ ^ cries 
Dacres, as some of them come together in one of the ve- 
randas. “We shall meet with the same fate as those who 
were put in there. I feel suffocated. We should have been 
half-way to Agra. We should have passed the day in a 
mango grove. We should not have had this foul air. 
There would have been a well; we should have had water 
to wash with, drink. 

“We might, on the other hand, ha\re had nothing to eat, 
and should have had no means of defense against any one 
attacking us,” says Steele. “ And I do not see how sitting 
in an open veranda can be like the Black Hole of Calcutta. ” 

“It is all very well for you, with your bloodless body,” 
growls Dacres. “ You do not feel the heat as I do,” and 
he looks at Steele not only angrily, but enviously. Ho 
doubt he, with his full habit, did feel the heat more than 
the spare, thin Steele. Then Steele^ s great moderation in 
the use of wine, which had exposed him to much animad- 
version on the score of want of good-fellowship, of setting 
himself above others, of stinginess, stood him in good stead 
now, was of other service to him than the saving of his 
pocket. 

“Big men want big drinks,” Dacres had cried, jovially, 
as he drained his big tankard of foaming Bass, or when, 
having swallowed one brandy-and-soda at a draught, he 
filled up another for more leisurely consumption. He had 


THE TOU-CHSTOKE OF PERIL. 267 

aiways been fond of his glass of sherry. But all this 
told against him now. They told on brain and nerve. He 
was in a most irritable condition of mind and body. You 
could see the difference in the condition of the two men by 
looking at them. How often had Mrs. Zouch called Steele 
the “ mummy/' laughed with Mary and Ohloe about his 
‘‘dry face." (Poor Mrs. Zouch! Her lively chatter had 
ceased forever. Her fluttering, butterfly-life had come to 
as terrible, but, luckily, as immediate, an end as that of the 
moth that falls into the flame. Her husband, who had 
rescued her from so many imaginary dangers, could not 
deliver her from this real one. But he had died by her side, 
like any knight of old, like any of his favorite heroes.) But 
at this moment his dry face looks better than Dacres's in- 
flamed and steaming one. 

At breakfast there had been some measure of cheerful- 
ness; at the mid-day meal there was no cheerfulness at all. 
It was but a sad and dolorous repast. They did not come 
to it refreshed by sleep and the cool night air. They had 
but little inclination to eat. They had a great inclination 
to drink, but not the wherewithal to gratify it. The small 
quantity of water doled out to them was warm, not cold. 
Their present experience taught them to understand how 
the plague of flies came to be numbered with the rivers of 
blood and the slaying of the first-born. The flies are a sore 
and grievous aflliction to them. They are in clouds, in 
shoals, in battalions, in armies. They settle upon their 
hands and necks and faces with horrid, clammy touch. 
They cluster into the corners of their eyes. They blacken 
the morsels of food, and make eating a horror. 

It does seem' as if the fearful heat is likely to prove too 
much for Mrs. Dyke, her condition becomes so much worse 
as the day advances. It would have gone harder with her 
but for the fortunate circumstance of Mrs. Neale's ayali 
regarding the two tall, cut-glass scent-bottles that had 
stood on her mistress's dressing-table in the old mausoleum 
as among the most precious and beautiful objects in the 
world; so she had conveyed them into the place of refuge 
the night before with her own hands. When Mary had 
seen them standing, in very solitary grandeur, on the floor 
of the big, bare room, they had filled her with a kind of 
anger; they seemed such a mock on the pomps and luxuries 
of life. But her opinion changed when she found they 


268 THE TOUCHSTOiv’E OF PERIL. 

were full of lavender-water. Their contents proved of the 
utmost service now. With this lavender-water they take 
it in turns to bathe Mrs. Dyke^s forehead, wliile they fan 
her with a coarse palm-leaf fan they had found in the place 
all through the hours of fiercest forenoon heat. Mrs. 
Graham insists on taking her turn, notwithstanding her 
hard work of cooking, distressing work of bending over a 
fire on such a day as that; insists on taking a double turn, 
notwithstanding that the afternoon sleep is more a lifelong 
custom with her than with any of them. 

I no can sleep, no can rest. Miss Mary,^^ she replies, 
when Mary remonstrates with her. “ If I no work I think 
of my poor daughters,'^ and the tears come rushing down 
her cheeks. 

As those terrible midday hours come on they begin to 
suffer dreadfully from thirst. Murmurs and complaints, 
headed by Dacres, begin to arise with regard to the restric- 
tion on the use of the water. Steele is obdurate to re- 
proaches and solicitations alike. But at length he has to 
yield to Sawyer^s professional opinion. An extra half- 
tumbler full of water is to be served out all round. How 
eagerly they gather round for the tepid draught. 

“ I can not drink this stuff by itself,^"’ cries Dacres, ajjd, 
seizing the bottle, puts a strong dash of brandy into it. 

“ You seem to have forgotten what I said. It must be 
understood, once for all, that the brandy is not to be used 
except by Sawyer^ s orders, says Steele, sternly. 

Old Bhola Misr has come up with his brass drinking- 
vessel to get his little draught. As it is being poured out 
for him, Guy Forde, who is standing by with his too-soon- 
emptied tumbler in his hand, looks at it with longing eyes. 

“ The hutcha (young one) wants it more than I do,^^ 
cries Bhola Misr, and pours it into Guy^s glass. 

Well said, Bhola Misr,^’ cries Steele, and Ethel shall 
have my share;'’^ and, notwithstanding Mrs. Borders re- 
monstrances, he gives his portion to the little girl. 

The whirling earth is carrying them away from the 
dreaded presence of the sun. The court-yard is now wholly 
in shade. But the middle of the afternoon is often the. 
hottest time of the day. Dacres has dragged one of the 
rude bedsteads into the shadiest corner of the veranda, 
and, having seated himself upon it, has put his back against 
;the wall in a spirit of dogged defiance. Ohloe Neale steals 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


269 


np to the bedstead and seats herself by his side. It is the 
first time they have been alone together sin(?e the moment 
when the bark of their existence, which had been floating 
so gayly along—'' youth at the prow, pleasure at the helm 
—had run so suddenly among the breakers; since they had 
passed from the bright sunshine into the dark shadow, the 
dreaded shadow it might be of the valley of death. How 
Chloe has looked forward to this moment. How closely 
will their common misfortunes and danger draw them to- 
gether. But, as is so often the case in moments of great 
excitement, her first remark is a commonplace one. 

" It is very hot, Percy. 

" There is no doubt about that,^^ says Hacres, drawing 
himself away a little, as if her proximity made him the 
hotter. Ohloe feels a sharp pang at the heart. They are 
quite alone together. 

Whenever they had been alone together, the day before, 
she had been obliged to resist his eager endearments, laugh- 
ingly to defend herself against them, coyly to yield to them; 
there had been the seizing of the hand, the embrace, the 
kiss. When she had seated herself so near him just now it 
was with the thought that there need be no co^'^ness now; 
she should sink into his arms, his sheltering arms, and rest 
hen- head upon his strong breast. Was he not her knight, 
her paladin, her chosen protector.^ What joy and happi- 
ness in the midst of such terrible suffering and danger to 
feel his protecting care, to have him cheer and soothe her. 
The toad of this great adversity would then have a precious 
jewel in its head. It was worth while to be cast down that 
he might lift her up; worth while to be fearful that he 
might reassure her; worth while to be miserable that he 
might console her; worth while to weep that he might wipe 
away her tears. And surely at such a time maidenly coy- 
ness and reserve might be laid aside, and she might return 
his fond endearments, soothe him with her kisses. And he 
had moved away from her! There is a pause. Then Ohloe 
feels that she must speak or weep. 

" 1 am sure it can not be hotter out of doors than it is 
in here.^^ She does not know why she should make that 
particular remark. 

" Of course not,^^ cries Hacres, fiercely. " In here we 
are in a d — d infernal fiery furnace. We should have been 
in a cool mango grove. There would have been a well in 


.270 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


it or near it. There always is. We should have been half- 
way to Agra, instead of here,""' and he lays a terrible stress 
on the last word. 

But we shall not be in here long. 

Oh, no! not for long. Certainly not. Only for as long 
as the water lasts. Then we must give ourselves up.^^ 

“ Oh, Percy 

If we have not died of heat and thirst before — 

“ Oh, Percy cries poor Chloe, trembling, and with 
difficulty keeping back that weeping. 

‘‘ It was such blind folly, such madness, coming in here. 
They would not take my advice. Your father would come 
in here. That conceited donkey, Steele, would insist on 
our coming in here. We should have been half way to 
Agra by this. 

But we are safe from the enemy in here. 

Safe! not if they choose to attack us. How can half 
a dozen men defend a place like this. Barricade! Hum- 
bug and nonsense. It is with difficulty Chloe suppresses 
a shriek, keeps back that burst of tears, but she manages 
to do so. 

‘‘ My fdther and Captain Steele say we are quite safe in 
here. ^ ^ 

“ Of course they will say so, as they brought us in here. 
Gan we live without water? We must give ourselves up, 
and our blood will be on your father^s head.^^ 

“Oh, Percy!^^ cries Chloe, inexpressibly shocked, and 
the tears now flowing unchecked down her cheeks. 

“ Look at the horrible condition we are in,^^ cries Dacres, 
fiercely, looking down at himself, looking round at her. 

Yesterday, clad in snowy- white garments, Chloe Neale 
had looked the embodiment of everything that was dainty, 
fresh, and fair; a snow maiden, a lily, a rose rain- washed. 
Now she is grimy and dirty. Her hair unkempt, her eyes 
swollen with weeping, her hands and face blotched and 
blistered. Her drenched and dirty garments cling clam- 
mily round her, all their freshness ‘‘gone. Then yesterday 
there was on her face the radiancy of hope and joy; now, 
to-day, the darkness of sorrow and despair. When yester- 
day she had looked round what was to be her married home 
with him who was to be her husband, there had been on 
her face one of those looks which come but once in a life- 
time — as when the young mother gazes on her first-born 


THE TOUCHSTOXE OF PERIL. 


271 


child — which come from the depths of the being. Then 
there was about her the brightening, beautifying atmosphere 
of happiness; now there was about her the dimming, dis- 
figuring atmosphere of distress. She had been in danger 
of her life. She had seen the leaping flames devour her 
prepared home. She had crouched in the dust. She had 
been drenched by the terrible heat from head to foot. She 
had had terrible sorrow. The hand- writing had appeared 
on the wall in the very midst of the joyous feast; the cup 
of joy had been dashed from her very lips. Her face was 
dimmed and darkened by bitter disappointment, by suffer- 
ing, by fear. Her beauty was under an eclipse. (The 
&udden loss of the daintiness, the cleanliness, the decencies, 
of their ordinary life inflicted not the least of their suffer- 
ings upon our poor countrywomen at that time.) She 
knew this, had felt it keenly, but had forgotten it when 
she flew to her lover, thinking only of how their common 
disappointment and loss and sorrow would draw them the 
more closely together. 

And now Dacres turns on her a gaze of disfavor, of dis- 
gust. 

She springs up and hastens away, and running up the 
narrow staircase into the long common-room throws herself 
down in one corner and falls to weeping violently. Her 
mother and Mary come to her, and try to soothe her. She 
has sufficient cause for sorrow, they do not think of asking 
if she has any special grief. 

“We shall be safe in Agra to-morrow, and everything 
will come right again, dear,^^ cries Mary, soothingly. 

“We shall never get to Agra.-’^ 

Why notP" 

Percy says so,^^ sobs Ohloe. “ He says that we have 
no water to drink; that the natives can take this place if 
they like; that we shall die of the heat and thirst.^'’ 

“ He ought not to say anything of the kind,” says Mary, 
indignantly. “ There is no reason for it.^^ 

And then they try to soothe and quiet her. 

A short while afterward Mary goes down into the eating- 
room, out of which opens the little room in which they have 
locked the water-jars. Percy Dacres comes into it, too. 

“ Is not this heat terrible!^'’ he exclajms. 

“ Poor Percy! I am so sorry for you, Percy!” says Mary, 
softly. “ What an accumulation of misfortunes; to have 


272 THE TOUCHSTONE OE PERIL. 

your own regiment mutiny; to have your house burned 
down just when you had furnished it so nicely — that all 
this should happen just when you were about to marry.-’’ 

• Not pleasant, certainly. Curse the black devils and 
curse thftir horrid country. I wish I had never come out 
to it. But all that is past. It is the present one has to 
think of. That we should be boxed in here so that we 
must give ourselves up or die of thirst, when we might 
have been out in the open. We might have been half 
way to Agra by this.” 

“ What is the good of harping on that?” 

“ Passed the day in a mango grove, in which, or near it, 
there would have been a well. Been free to move about. ” 

“ But not safe, as we are here.” 

‘^Safe! Here! Yes, as rats in a trap. Safe to be 
killed.” 

Do not talk like that. I see what has distressed poor 
Chloe so. ” 

‘‘ They would not take my advice. ” 

‘‘ Had my father been by himself I dare say he would 
have ridden in to Agra straight,” said ^lary, quickly. It 
is we poor women who are the drag. I know he reproaches 
himself bitterly for not having thought to look last night 
how much water we had in here. But he was so hurried. 
We had to come in so fast. It has made him very unhap- 
py. It would not be generous in any one else to reproach 
him. ” 

I say that should anything happen to us our blood will 
be on his head and on that of Steele. ” 

‘‘ It is shameful of you to say so. To say this of a man 
to whose daughter you are engaged! To say so to his own 
daughter. How dare you?” 

For reply Dacres is about to repeat what he has said in 
stronger language; this thought has so taken possession of 
him, so overmastered him; but he checks himself; he has 
been brought into the room by a purpose, a desire, which 
is a still more overmastering one. 

Well, we will not say anything more about that, though 
there is no doubt that by this time we should have been — 
but we will not say anything more about it. But I am 
suffering terribly, most terribly, from the heat, Mary. I 
have a swimming in the head. I feel quite faint. I feel 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 


278 ^ 


as i£ my eyes were starting out of my head. I feel as if I 
were about to die. Give me a glass of water, Mary/’’ 

Mary starts; 

“ How can 
‘‘ Why Dotr^^ 

“ To you and not to the others?” 

I want it more than any one else.’^ 

‘‘ There are women and children in here.^^ 

‘‘ Yes; and I think it is a confounded shame those little 
brats should get as much as a grown-up man.’’^ 

“ Oh, hush! Percy, hush!” 

Only half a glassful, Mary.” 

‘‘ You should not ask for it, Percy. You know you 
should not. ” 

I am dying of thirst.^’ 

‘‘ It, has been placed in my charge. I should be betray- 
ing my trust. 

“ What difference can half a tumbler make?” 

“ How can I keep it from the others and give it to you?’^ 
“ I did think, Mary, you would do for me what you 
would not do for others.” 

The blood rushes up into her cheeks. He speaks sig- 
nificantly. 

‘‘ But—” 

** Only half a glass, Mary. Do you think if you were 
dying of thirst, and asked me for a little water, I should 
hesitate and consider, and not give it to you at once?” 

Should she not give it to him? But would this be real 
kindness? To help him to his fall ! To help him to smirch 
his manhood! Others, women, were showing a noble forti- 
tude. To her grief he was not. But surely it was only for 
the moment that the fiery, trial was too great for him. 
Should she let fleeting intention pass into irrevocable act? 
Was it not in moments of weakness and temptation that 
men did deeds which fixed on them the brand of shame, 
subjected them to gnawing remorse forever afterward? 

What would Captain Steele think of her? She found 
this consideration to have a weight with her she had not 

but for your own sake, Percy. ” 

“ A short time ago you would have given me anything I 
asked for — even yourself. ” 


expected 
“No! 


274 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

Mary trembles. Anger, pity, regret, send the tears into 
her eyes. 

Dacres laughs. 

A fitting speech! most manly! most generous!’^ she 
cries, scornfully. I do not know what grounds you have 
for your assertion. But had I ever entertained for you any 
such feelings as you suppose, as you Would so nobly fling in 
my face, your conduct to-day would have cured me of it — 
. quite. 

Mary turns round and walks away. A derisive laugh 
follows her as she mounts the staircase. She stops at the 
head of it — descends half way to the turn in it from which 
she can look back into the lower room. Her thought was 
too true. She sees Dacres hastily pour the brandy into the 
glass; hastily, but carefully, so as to prevent the explosion, 
uncork a bottle of soda water, pour it in, and swallow the 
draught. She goes up again feeling quite sick and faint. 
No blow so cruel as that which destroys a cherished ideal. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE FIRST OF THE SIEGE. — NIGHT. 

Suddenly the cry runs through the garrison that the 
so-long-deferred attack is about to be made, the enemy 
coming. The men seize their rifles, they have always had 
them at hand, and come together. The women hurry 
down into the court-yard; are told to return to their room. 
There they remain in a terrible state of excitement and 
fear. What may not the next hour forebode? The mother 
and the two daughters come closely together. Mrs. Forde 
presses her two children to her side. Mrs. Dyke starts up 
from her corner' her grief overcome by her personal fears. 
Mrs. Graham takes her stand at the top of the staircase 
with a hatchet in her hand, and any one trying to force his 
way up it will find in her a most formidable antagonist. 
She is strong and fearless. She has met dangers often be- 
fore. In her youth her arms have had plenty of strong 
exercise, lifted many a heavy load, pounded many a bushel 
of rice, chopped up many a load of wood. If the head of 
the first man ascending the staircase comes witllin reach of 
the sweep of her arm, he, most assuredly, will never get 
higher than where he stands. And she longs to be able to 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 275 

deliver such a blow. She is fierce at the loss of her chil- 
dren — fierce with sorrow, fierce with rage. She is like a 
tigress bereft of her cubs. The savage is still strong with- 
in her. 

Steele has been called up to the roof. The men watch- 
ing them are in two bands, one of which has taken up its 
position in the buildings facing the gate-way of the old go- 
down, the other under the trees in the grounds of the old 
mausoleum. A couple of horsemen are seen passing from 
one post to the other. There is an accession to their 
strength. Steele gets hoisted up to the parapet above the 
gateway, which gives him a wide command of the fiat, 
open country. There is no large body of men in view. 
Ping, whir, come the badly made matchlock balls from 
the buildings in front of him, a long way ofl‘; from behind 
the mound to his right-hand side, uncomfortably near. 
But he maintains his post of observation. He sees the two 
horsemen ride away along the wide imperial highway, east- 
ward; i. e., in the direction of Hajigunje. He leaps down. 
The attack will not be made just yet. He says so, confi- 
dently, when he returns to the court-yard. There is noth- 
ing to be done again but wait. 

As Neale and Captain Steele are seated together Bhola 
Misr comes up to them, and addressing the former says, 

“ Sir! this is a very grievous thing that we should have 
so little water. i 

‘‘ It is so, indeed, most grievous. I should have seen to 
it last night, the very first thing, how much water we had. 

“ There was much hurry and confusion. One can not 
think of everything. But it has occurred to me that a well 
must have formed a part of the original construction of 
this building. 

I have never seen or heard of a well in it. The water 
has always been got from outside.'’^ 

“ The water is not far from the surface in these parts. 
It would not cost much to make a well. There must have 
been one in here, I think. It would not be considered a 
place of defense without one. It may have been filled up 
before your honoris time — when no longer wanted. 

“ Do you think so,"' cried Neale, excitedly, jumping up. 
“ There would be no harm in searching for it/" said the 
old man. “We may be able to reopen it."" 

‘‘We must search for it at once."" 


S76 


THE TOUCHSTOIsE OF PEEIL. 


It would be somewhere in this court-yard. 

The court-yard is not a. large one; the search close and 
eager; but it is not successful. The sudden cheerfulness 
that had come over Neale^s face leaves it. 

There must have been one/^ persists old Bhola Misr, 
and he goes about turning up the earth with a spade. 

Mil gy a !’^ (It is found!) he shouts. 

‘‘ Eureka!^-’ shouts Steele, in response. 

Neale breathes a deep sigh of relief. Whatever mis- 
fortunes may be in store for them they will not have been 
due to his neglect. 

Never did digger in gold or diamond mine look down on 
new-found nugget or gem with more delight than did the 
two Englishmen on the rim of masonry now exposed to 
view. The happy news flies through the garrison and 
brings all the members of it flocking together to the spot. 
Steele begins to arrange for the clearing out of the cylinder 
in his usual methodical way. But Bhola Misr advises that 
each man should be allowed to dig for as long as he can, 
rather than for a stated period, and it is settled so. Bhola 
Misr himself takes the first turn. His hands had been 
familiar with the spade long before they had handled mus- 
ket or sword ; he h.ad helped to dig many a well in his 
youth; and so notwithstanding his weight and size, his feet 
have soon got a good way below the surface of the earth. 
There is no lack of tools, of pick-axes and spades and bas- 
kets. Then Sulivan Bird jumps in and does a cheery 
spell of work; his arms have not been so strained since 
they pulled in the boats at Eton. Then Sawyer descends 
into the narrow masonry ring, slowly and solemnly. 

“It is very difficult to work in this extremely circum- 
scribed area,^^ he says. “ Most fatiguing to the dorsal 
column. 

But he, too, has sunk himself down a good deal ere he 
emerges from it. And what a sight are his wide-mouthed 
trousers, on whose snowy whiteness he has been wont so 
greatly to pride himself! 

At last! The sun is near his setting. What a weary 
time he has been descending from the zenith. 

“ Let us all go on to the roof, and get a breath of fresh 
air,^" cries Steele. “ Let us have our tea and biscuits up 
there. 

They go up and watch the palpitating sun near the un- 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 277 

dulating horizon. The great red globe drops below it. 
The brief evening has come. The usual quiet evening. 
There are no portents in the air. The heavens are not 
rent. The earth does not quake. There is no disturbance 
of the usual order of things. The cawing crows fly slowly 
‘overhead. “ The lowing herds wind o^er the lea. The 
bright after-glow comes on as usual and is followed by the 
sudden da.’kness. The stars shine out bright and clear — 
twinkle as joyously as ever. We may adjust our moods to 
nature^s, but she does not adjust her moods to ours. The 
breeze is playing among the leaves and flowers while the 
last breath is struggling on our lips; the bright sunshine 
falls on mead and plain while our eyes are darkening for- 
ever. 

The tea-things, including the big silver tea-pot, have been 
arranged along the top of the inner parapet wall. They 
gather around, eager for the cheering draught. 

‘‘ My dear John,'’^ says Mrs. Neale, ‘‘ does not this bring 
back old times 

I can not say that it does,^'’ replies her husband. I 
am not aware that we were ever before in such a situation 
as this. ^ 

Oh, no! of course not. But you remember when we 
first came out we used to dine in the day-time and have our 
tea out-of-doors in the evening. 

“But surely the sitting in the open air peacably and 
comfortably before one^s own door, with no danger threat- 
ening one, was a very different situation from this. The 
very opposite. 

“ I am sure it is very pleasant here now. I always like 
taking my meals out-of-doors. How bright the evening 
star is. Take Mrs. Dyke this cup of tea, Mr. Bird, and 
try and prevail on her . to drink it. I wish we had some 
milk. But they say you get the taste of the tea better 
without milk. They always take it so in China. 

From where they sit they can, of course, see quite plain- 
ly the big bulbous dome and the light cupolas of the old 
mausoleum rising up into the air far above the tops of the 
trees. 

“ It seems very strange, says Mrs. Neale, “ to have 
one^s house and grounds under oner’s eyes and not be able 
to go into them. Yesterday nobody could go mto them 


278 THE TOUCHSTONE OE PEKIL. 

but ourselves, and to-day everybody can go into them but 
ourselves. Odd — 

“ Very/^ says Mr. Neale, sarcastically. 

I wonder what they have done with the poultry, John?^^ 

“ I have not as yet received any authentic information 
on the subject,'’^ says Mr. Neale, in the same tone. 

‘ ^ If they have looted the house I hope they have left 
some of our dresses behind,"’^ remarks Mrs. Neale. When 
we go into Agra we are sure, to be asked out a good deal. 
The Peploes and the Shands and the Butterworths are all 
there. It will be awkward to have no dresses."’^ 

“ What an extraordinary woman you are, AnnF^ bursts 
out Mr. Neale. ‘‘ When there was no danger, and you 
had everything quiet and comfortable about you, you were 
always in a state of fear and trembling. This was going to 
happen and that was going to happen. Now, when you 
are shut up here in distress and discomfort and danger, 
you do not seem to mind it! I do not understand it; it is 
so ineonsistent.'’^ 

Mary Neale, too, had remarked the inconsistency,^^ 
with wonder and surprise, not with fault-finding. She who 
had shown such extraordinary ingenuity in conjuring up 
imaginary dangers did not seem able to' see real ones. She 
who had made mountains out of molehills now made a 
molehill out of a mountain. There were now no continual 
vaticinations of evil; her forebodings now were of joy and 
not of sorrow. There was a cheerful endurance of the 
present; no gloomy forecasting of the future.. Mary had 
expected her mother to be utterly oast down and miserable, 
a burden on them; she was calm, quiet, and cheerful, a 
support. With regard to her and Dacres Mary^s expecta- 
tions had been exactly reversed. 

At a time like this,^^ goes on Mr. Neale, you think 
only of the dinners you are to go to at Agra, of the 
clothes you are to wear. Most wonderful. It shows clearly 
that you used to trouble yourself and others needlessly with 
your timidity. I always thought and said so. You re- 
member I told you so — very often. 

Very often, John,^^ says Mrs. Neale, quietly. And 
to make an effort. Now I have made the effort. 

It puzzles me,^^ blunders on Mr. Neale. ‘‘You used 
always to be in such a fright about the girls. If they went 
out for a ride or a drive something would be sure to hap- 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


279 


pen. If they were out in the day-time you thought they 
would get sunstruck. At every meal you were afraid that 
something would disagree with them. And now, when 
real dangers threaten them, you do not seem to mind it a 
bit. Your only concern is that they should appear in Agra 
with nice dresses on!^^ 

Was that her only concern! Witness the long vigils of 
the night before, when she had laid sleepless, listening to 
the breathing of the girls by her side, straining her ears to 
catch the faintest sound on the plain below! Witness the 
throbbing of her heart now, which she strives to still by 
pressing her side against the wall on which she leans. She 
raises her large, soft eyes, from which the tears had welled 
forth silently for so many hours last night, and encounters 
Steele^s quiet, sympathetic gaze, and knows that he, at 
least, understands her. She gives him a faint little smile, 
and then says, briskly, 

“ Well, John, if I have been foolish I am determined 
not to be foolish any longer; not to make myself and otiiers 
miserable needlessly. But it was different then and now. 
I could prevent the girls from eating of a certain dish, go- 
ing out in the sun. I can not take them out of this place. 
We must make the best of it while here. I am so thankful 
that we are in such a safe place. We have plenty to eat — 
though I used to consider chupatees unwholesome — ^and 
will soon have plenty to drink. The party from Agra will 
soon arrive to conduct us there, and what clothes we shall 
have to wear is surely the most natural thing to think of — 

Except whether the enemy will not take us first,^^ in- 
terj^olates Dacres. 

The most natural, cries Steele, quickly. We shall 
present a pretty spectacle as we are. She is the best man 
among us,’^ he says, in an under-tone, to Mary, by whose 
side he sits. 

‘‘ What can not be cured must be endured, says Dr. 
Sawyer, solemnly. 

^‘And then,^^ says Mrs. Neale, ‘‘things might have 
been worse; so terribly worse that I dare not think of it. I 
am overjoyed to think that my daughters got safely out of 
Hajigunje. Dear Mrs. Forde,"^ taking that lady by the 
hand, “ you understand how we may be cheerful, with all 
our dear ones with us. Think of poor Mrs. Dyke — think 
of poor Mrs. Graham. 


280 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

They had not been able to persuade Mrs. Dyke to come 
up. Mrs. Graham was below cooking the cakes which 
formed j)art of their evening meal. 

‘‘Yes/^says Mrs. Ford e, softly. ‘‘We should indeed 
be thankful. 

“ But none of them really knew the height of Mrs, 
Neale^s heroism, for none of them knew the heights of fear 
it overtopped. They knew not of the fear that even now 
was tearing at her heart, while she spoke to them with 
smiling face. They knew not of the dread shapes and 
horrid phantoms surrounding her, and over which she so 
heroically maintained a mastery. 

The brief, glittering evening ceases. Darkness rolls over 
the land. How delightful is that darkness to the nerves 
irritated by the long hours of terrible heat and light; how 
it lulls and soothes them. They have rest. The lights be- 
gin to come out in the villages bordering the sea^^like plain, 
signs of thousands of quiet, peaceful homes. It is not so 
hot to-night as it had been the night before. A coolness 
sets in about nine o^clock as it used to in the month of 
May. Oh, blessed refreshment and relief! From over the 
wide-spreading plain comes a breeze, thd' ghost and shadow 
of a breeze, a mere movement in the air that would not 
have stirred the tiniest, most outlying leaf of a peepul- 
tree, tremulous as its leaves are, but yet their parched skins 
feel it and welcome it. How eagerly they set^their faces to 
it! 'But though the brief space of darkness is delightful, 
its presence the whole night through would have been a 
source of great trouble and dread, as giving their enemies 
the best opportunity for attacking them; making it impos- 
sible to resist them. And so they welcome the brilliant 
moonlight, not only for its beauty, but its usefulness. Had 
the night been a dark one they would have thought that 
the attack had been delayed waiting for it. As it is they 
can not account for that delay. 

“ They are getting together an overwhelming force,^^ 
suggests Dacres. 

“ The Sepoys may have marched away straight to Delhi, 
as they have done else where, says Steele. 

“ The men watching us have been re-enforced by the 
retainers of the Nuwab of Hajigunje,^^ says Forde. “ He 
is a scion of the house of Delhi. He may have set himself 
up as ruler here. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 281 

‘'They have delayed the attack too long/^ sa3’s Steele. 

They do not know that we have sent in to Agra for help. 
We shall be relieved to-night or to-morrow morning. 

A feeling of hopefulness springs up among them: Mrs. 
!Neale^s foolish-seeming talk, which her husband has so 
reprobated, has contributed in no small measure to that 
end; the reinvigorating effects of the cool night air contri- 
bute to it too. And there comes another cause for hopeful- 
ness, comes just when the moon is pouring her light 
straight down into the ' court-yard, comes as it were upon 
her beams; after which it may seem utter bathos to say 
that what we refer to was the discovery that the lower part 
of the well was simply filled np with loose bricks; but the 
clearing out of the well was now becoming a very slow and 
diiB&cult process, increasingly so the lower they got; the 
difference made by the bricks was a very great one; they 
could he lifted out so much more easily and quickly; it 
made them certain of success; the discovery was an im- 
portant one. The good news flies through the garrison. 
As bad luck is dispiriting because we think the enormous 
overriding power of fate is against us, so good luck is ex- 
hilarating because we think that unseen, irresistible force is 
on our side. They seek their hard couches with much 
lighter hearts. They, at all events most of them, soon 
cast off the burden of wakefulness, and are soon infolded 
in the soft robe of sleep. They soon pass into that state 
in which thinking, sentient man finds his greatest happi- 
ness, in which he knows and feels nothing. They pass 
through the ivory gate and behind the dark curtain with 
the same sense of rehef as those flying from their enemies 
in the Middle Ages passed through the door-way and behind 
the heavy curtain of the sacred place of refuge. They 
pass into the vast temple of rest and quiet and forgetful- 
ness, the beneficent sanctuary from the pursuing fiends of 
thought and remembrance and care. Mary ]Neale is 
awakened by the moon shining down full on her face. She 
lies motionless for some time watching the great luminary. 
How grand, how splendid, and how near she looks! Here 
was the pale face of the girl, and there the round white 
orb, and between the two the link of light and thought. 
Then she rises and walks to one of the side roofs that is 
untenanted, and seats herself on the parapet wall, and 
looks out through the silvery atmosphere over the silvery 


282 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. . 

plain. In all her waking dreams Mary Neale had never 
dreamed of an hour like this. She remembers suddenly 
how she gazed at the large, white moon at this self-same 
hour, in this self-same month of June last year; the hour 
and sight the same, but the place and circumstance, how 
different! It was in the safe security of an English 
domain, the night of a dance; when between the joyous 
dances she had strolled out into the garden — the garden so 
sweet — and heard the nightingales sing. How different 
now! And between that hour and this what things' 
had happened, things long anticipated, things never 
dreamed of: the return to India; the rejoining of her par- 
ents; the renewal of the long-severed home-ties. 8he had 
changed earth and sky, her friends and acquaintances, her 
mode of life — all her surroundings. She had found herself 
a local queen and goddess. Had enjoyed months of great 
delight and happiness. And now this! She had* been in 
peril of her life, and was now in peril of her life. She 
shudders as she thinks of those hours in the shed in the 
garden. But her thoughts soon pass away from the pres- 
ent peril. Those who have gone through similar scenes 
know how soon they come to be accepted in an ordinary 
sort of a way. She can think of other things; this does not 
occupy her whole thought. The vague, dim, shy, tender, 
shadowy, half-indulged and half-subdued imaginings of 
love and courtship, of wooers and wooing, of the old time, 
have taken form and become realities; and she can not 
but smile as she thinks how different Theodore Augustus 
Sawyer and his proposal were from what she had fancied 
her first wooer and her first proposal of marriage would be 
like; then she sighs as she thinks of the fall of her god 
from his pedestal that day; of the loss of her first idol; of 
poor Mrs. Zouch; of when they are likely to come to water 
in tl^ well; of what may be the fate of" her two proteges. 
Flora and Eliza Graham. 

She hears footsteps and looks round. , 

“ Is that you, Miss Neale?^^ 
f<Yes.'’^ 

Not able to sleep — 

‘‘ I was awakened by the moon shining full on my 
face. ^ ^ 

“ How wonderfully bright she is.^"* 

“Wonderfully.” 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. ^83 

‘ Mother of light, how fairly dost thou go. ^ Do you 
know those lines of Hood^s?’^ asks Steele, as he seats him- 
self by her side. 

‘‘Yes; they are very fine/^ 

Then they sit silent. 

“ How near she looks. 

“Yes."^ 

“ How splendidly the light pours down. 

“ Yes.^^ 

And they are silent again. 

“ Last year, one night in August, I was coming home' 
about twelve o^ clock. There had been rain in the even- 
ing, which had cleared the air, but the clouds had all 
passed away, or lay low down in the horizon. The sky 
was clear and of a deep, dark, purple blue. The full moon 
riding through it was the most splendid sight I ever saw. 
She was so wonderfully luminous. Everything around was 
lighted up. The trees and bushes were frosted with silver. 
At this present time of the year there is always more or less 
dust in the atmosphere, says Steele. 

“ This full moon would impress any one,^^ says Mary. 

“ And yet the poets have written more about the crescent 
moon or the, waning moon. I was out on another such 
clear night, last year, when the sky was of the same deep, 
dark blue. There was no moon. But the sky was most 
marvelously strewn with stars, some of the largest con- 
stellations and two large planets were high overhead; that, 
I think, was a more splendid sight. 

“I do not know which is the more beautiful — a fine 
moonlight night or a fine starlight one. I almost think 
the latter,'^ says Mary. 

“ There is more mystery in it.^^ 

“The great consolation in these hot- weather months, 
goes on Steele, “ is the being able to sleep in the open air. 
I always do so. I love it. 

“ These two nights in the open air seem to have given 
me a new insight into Eastern life — into life,^^ says Mary. 

“ This bright moonlight is most useful to us, too,^^ says 
Steele; and then they come down from the heavens to the 
earth, talk of their situation, of the events of the day be- 
fore; Mary recalls them in trembling reminiscence. Of 
one incident, of deepest common concern, the abduction of 
their two common protegees, the two Graham girls, they 


284 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

can make but slightest mention. They can not speak to- 
gether of the evils that may have overtaken them. 

“ I wonder why the Sepoys, the people, have not come 
out against us yet,^^ says Mary. 

“ The Sepoys have probably gone to Delhi; taken posses- 
sion of the money in the treasury and marched away.^^ 

“ And yet, as they keep such careful watch over us here, 
I suppose they mean to attack the place. 

‘‘We must be relieved by to-morrow. 

“ If our messengers have reached Agra.^^ 

“ The}’’ are sure to reach. They are trustworthy men. 
They have been promised a heavy reward. 

“ I am afraid you must have found your wound very 
painful on such a day as this, more especially as you have 
been using your arm so much,^^ says Mary, softly. 

“ A little; not much. 

“ I know you make out your wound to be less seyere than 
it is. I have asked Dr. Sawyer about it. 

“ Have you? It was very good of you.-’^ 

“ He says you should wear it in a sling. 

“ I am somewhat impatient of restriction and restraint. 

“ Let me make a sling for you with this scarf — she has 
thrown one round his neck. “ Stand up.^^ 

They are very close together. Steele feels her warm 
breath on his cheek; the touch of her fingers on his neck 
thrills every nerve and fiber; he feels giddy; he trembles. 

“"I am sure the wound pains you very much,^^ says 
Mary, who feels the tremor of his frame. 

“It is not that’’ says Steele. There is a soft cadence 
in his voice. (I have dwelt on the sweet voice of my 
friend. Had you heard him speak of anything that deeply 
stirred the feelings, a mother^s love, an act of self-devo- 
tion, of noble self-sacrifice; heard him read some fine pas- 
sage of poetry, you would have known how varyingly beau- 
tiful it was, like the wind sighing through the pine-trees, 
like the changing echoes in a lofty dome. ) Mary feels the 
mere physical quality of his words. She is more deeply 
moved by their soul or spirit. Her soul feels the soul of 
them. Her voice trembles as she utters the very simple 
words, 

“ There; I have tied the knot. I hope it is the right 
length. 

Quite says Steele, with extraordinary fervor. 


THE TOrCH STONE OE PERIL. 


285 - 


Surely the miser, the mummy, has fallen in love with 
her, as people had hinted to her in that two-days^ -removed 
time which yet seems ages off, as she herself, had begun to 
have reason to suspect. 

Good-night!” she says, softly, as she moves away. 

When she has threaded her way among the recumbent 
figures, and settled herself down in her place again, she re- 
fiects on that discordance between wishes and facts which 
she has already begun to recognize as one of the conditions 
of life. Why should the wrong persons have the right 
qualities? Why do not those whom we should most desire 
to love and admire and worship have lovable and worship- 
ful qualities? 


OHAPTER XXXVIII. 

PAYMENT IN FULL. 

AVe must go back to the day of the outbreak. It is the 
evening of it. We once more see the old proprietor, old 
Dya Ram, and his loutish, heavy -shouldered son, standing 
at the edge of the mound, beneath the shadow of their dis- 
mantled ancestral liome, looking out over the plain spread 
wide below. The sun, now a spear-length above the hori- 
zon, is of a bloody red, and his last rays suffuse the dust- 
laden air with an .ominous crimson tinge. The sun has 
dropped below the horizon. The old man moves restlessly 
on his long spindle-shanks; he twists his beard impatient- 
ly between his bony fingers. The lad leans on his heavy 
bamboo club, in a listless attitude. 

What sound ds that?^^ cries the old man, eagerly. 

Some one 'Chopping wood.-’-’ 

What sound is that now?^^ asks the father again, ex- 
citedly. 

‘‘ A woman pounding rice,” replies the son. 

The crows are cawing their homeward way overhead; the 
cattle are converging on the village from the distant graz- 
ing-grounds. Long lines of dust mark the approach of the 
various fiocks and herds, and from each long, trailing 
cloud rises up the mingled sound of the bleating of goats, 
the lowing of cattle, the tinkling of their bells, the shouts 
of the men and boys. 

‘‘ Curse those incestuous cattle!” exclaims the old man* 

AVe shall not be able to hear because of this noise. ” 


286 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

Oh, yes, we shall, says the young fellow, nonchalant- 
ly, resting his full weight on the club. 

“ No, we shall not!’’ cries the gaunt old ra'jput, irritabl}^. 

Curse those ill-born herdsmen! What are they shouting 
for?^^ 

The flocks and herds have reached the village and been 
penned and folded. The stars come out. Silence reigns 
around. A partridge calls in the fields below. 

“ It is from the right hand,^^ cries the old man, exult- 
ingly. ‘‘ It is a good omen.^^ 

The brief twilight has faded away. The night cries 
arise; the demoniacal yelping of the jackals; the shrill, 
discordant cry of the pea-fowl settling themselves down in 
the trees; the grating creek of the night jar; the ill-omened 
chatter of the small owls; the deep boom of the great 
horned owl. 

“ Look there, Pirthee Raml^^ cries the old man, excited- 
ly, making us for the first time acquainted with the name 
of his son. “What is that? It is the station of Haiigunje . 
on fire. 

The bungalows are on fire,^^ says the son; ‘‘ they liaTC 
been burning all the afternoon. But they lie not that 
way. That is the rising moon. 

‘‘ We shall be too late for the loot at Hajignnje.^^ 

It can not be helped. We shall make no bad loot 
here.'’^ 

If we can only get him to tell where his treasure is 
hid.^^^ 

‘‘We shall make him tell us. 

The large, round moon has lifted herself up above the 
horizon. 

“Why do they delay?’ ' cries the old man, impatiently. 
“ The moon has risen. It will soon be as bright as day.’’ 

Then from the village-crowded i^lain below comes up the 
deep tap of the Indian war-drum. 

“There it is,” cry father and son together, in one 
breath. 

The sound is re-echoed from another part of the hori- 
zon. 

“ That is from Uchulda, ” cries the old man, his voice 
miivering with excitement, naming one of the largest of 
the villages that lie below. 


2S7 


THE , TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

“ Yes/^ says the son, who has exchanged his easy, loung- 
ing attitude, for one of eager, strained attention. 

‘‘From Eahin,^^ cries the old man, as the rattle of a 
smaller drum falls sharp upon the ear, his voice rising, his 
head held up high. 

Then from a long way ojff rolls up the deep note of the 
big kettle-drum again. 

‘‘Thy ears are sharper than mine, my son. Was that 
from Mamin, thinkest thou?:’^ 

“Yes.^^ 

Tap, tap, tap, from the right. 

“From Dibiapore,^^ cries the old man, in a still louder 
voice. 

Boom, boom, boom, from the left. 

“ From Kudr Kote,-’^ he cries, in a tone of high exulta-v 
tion. 

Father and son now disappear quickly through the dis- 
mantled gate-way of the old fort; reappear very quickly, 
each carrying a sword in his hand, walk rapidly down the 
side of the. mound; then hurry swiftly along a pathway 
through the fields. This brings them to a large mango 
grove by the margin of the lake. The grove is full of mem 
There is a quick interchange of salutations and greetings 
as father and son pass under the shadow of the dense-leafed 
trees. Then comes a brief consultation, whispered orders. 
The men stream out of the grove, disperse themselves over 
the fields, and then make for the village, singly or by twos 
and threes. 

Between the newly-erected mansion of the scribe and 
money-lender, Luchmee Pershad, and the margin of the 
lake, lay an open space in the center of which stood a well.- 
Eound the circular masonry platform of the well, whose 
highly stuccoed sides gleam like marble in the moonlight, 
are now clustered together, like wasps round a stalk^, a 
large body of men. They send up a great shout, a yell. 

“ What disturbers of the night are these,"*^ cries a voice 
from the top of the gate- way, “ who come making a noise 
in front of their landlord’s dwelling?” 

The men had at first gathered together silently. They 
had thought they might find the gate of the dwelling open, 
and carry it with a rush. 

“ The old fox was not to be caught with the mouth of 
his den open on such a night as this,” said the loutish son 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


of Dya Earn, as the closed gate presented itself to them. 

But it does not matter.’^ 

And so, silence being no longer needed, his followers 
send up an answering shout. 

He is no longer the landlord. I have resumed the 
proprietorship of my. estates,^’ in reply, cries Dya Earn, 
stepping out in front of his following. ‘‘ Tell Luchmee 
Pershad that if he will open the gate to us at once, we will 
treat him and his with kindness and consideration. 

The man above the gate-way laughs — 

“ Kindness and consideration!’^ 

“ I guarantee absolute immunity from harm to those of 
his household. Hot a hair of their heads shall be touched.” 

And Luchmee Pershad?” 

‘‘We shall deal with him as we see fit.” 

The man laughs again. 

“ If we have to force our way in we shall deal harshly 
with all. ” 

“ Is that you, Dya Earn?” the squeaky voice of Luch- 
mee Pershad is heard crying from the top of the gate-way. 

Have you resumed your old trade of house-breaker open- 
ly and without disguise?” 

“Thief! scoundrel! oppressor! base-born, incestuous 
one! forger! usurer! suborner of false witnesses!” yell the 
men below. 

“ And you have turned thieves and robbers too!” to 
them, from above, replies Luchmee Pershad. “ I know 
you. I know your voices. If you do any mischief here I 
will have you up in court; have you tried, imprisoned, 
transported, hung. This is British territory.” 

“ The British rule is over,” yell the men below. 

“ Because the Sepoys at Hajigunje have mutinied you 
think the British rule is over, do you? You will find your- 
'staken,” shouts out Luchmee Per- 



He says this not merely to frighten 


them; he believes what he says; he has a firm faith in the 
stability of the English power. 

“ Do you accept my terms?” asks Dya Earn, after hav- 
ing enjoined silence on his followers. 

“ I will let you know in a few minutes,” replies Luch- 
mee Pershad. He retires behind the high, ornamental 
parapet wall that crowns the top of the gate-way. “ Shoot 
him, shoot Dya Earn, and I give you a thousand rupees,” 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


289 


he whispers, hastily, to the man who had first challenged 
the crowd, the leader of his band of retainers. “ Get your 
matchlock. Quick. 

“ What are your terms: asks Luchmee Pershad, step- 
ping forward again. 

“ Absolute immunity to those of your household. Safe 
and honorable conveyance for them beyond the limits of 
our domain. 

“And for me?^^ 

“ We shall see.^^ 

“ And you expect me to surrender on these terms?^^ 

“ We do. You can not escape us. We can break the 
gate in. I can not tell what may happen then to all within 
your walls. 

“ The gate is strong. We are armed. All my men are 
in here. 

“ Half a dozen or a dozen — we are — 

And those were very nearly being the last words Dya 
Ram spoke. Ping! a bullet whistles close by his head; it 
lays a man standing almost behind him in the front rank 
dead. The reason pf^'the pretended parley is understood. 
Ere Dya Ram can give any orders he is borne forward by a 
surging crowd, like a log of wood on the crest of a rolling 
wave. The assailants hurl themselves on the gate-way. 
The tall gates shake ^d tremble. But bolts and bars hold 
good. Another shot from above and another man falls. 
But still the crowd of men press heavily against the gate, 
striving to burst it open by sheer force — by mere accumu- 
lated weight. A shower of logs of wood and brickbats de- 
scends on them from above, wounding many badly. The 
gate does not yield — Dya Ram and his son, Pirthee Ram, 
withdraw their men, their withdrawal being expedited by 
another shot from above the gate-way. Then did Luchmee 
Pershad lament that he had placed so perfect a reliance on 
the protecting power of the English government. He had 
only made arrangements to defend his house against ordi- 
nary thieves and robbers. Was not the English station 
but a few miles off? He had eight or ten stout retainers 
in his house; but he might have had three times that num- 
ber. Above all he had only three men armed with match- 
locks. Six men even, so armed, and he would have been 
safe. 

Old Dya Ram now prepares for a planned attack. On 
10 


S90 


THE TOUCHSTONE OP PEKIT. 


one side of the open space lies a long, heavy wooden beam; 
Six sturdy men are told off to carry this up to the gate-way. 
he disposes some matchlockmen to open a fire on the top 
of the gate-way; he sends his son round to the back of the 
building to make a sham attack there and distract the 
attention of the defenders. All these operations are to be 
carried out simultaneously, at a given signal. 

A deep silence now prevails. The young wife of Luch- 
mee Pershad, crouching down in the darkest corner of her 
secluded apartments, with her children by her side, presses 
her baby son closely to her breast. 

The deep brooding silence of expectation is followed by a 
terrible tumult and uproar, which lasts until it is succeeded 
by the deep, awful silence of ruin and devastation. 

Dya Ram gives the signal. A sharp fusillade is opened 
on the top of the gate- way. From behind the building 
comes the sharp, crackle of musketry, fierce shouts and 
yells. The heavy beam has been lifted; is carried swiftly 
forward; dropped in front of the gate- way. 

The young wife of Luchmee Pershad hears the sudden 
uproar and tumult close beneath her window; crouches 
still further back into the corner, clasps her infant still 
more closely to her breast. 

When Dya Ram sees that the beam has been dropped in 
front of the gate-way he draws his sword, and with a shout 
of ‘‘ Dya Ram hi jye!” (Victory to Dya Ram!) Pirthee 
Ram hi jye!^’ ( Victory to Pirthee Ram!) rushes toward 
the portal with a swiftness that is amazing considering his 
years — a swiftness that keeps him ahead of all his followers, 
younger and stronger men though they be. The heavy 
beam is lifted up by as many hands as can be got under it, 
is launched against the gate. 

When the head, man of Luchmee Pershad-’s guard, who 
had rupficd to the rear of the building on hearing the shout- 
ing there, catches that sound — the stroke of the battering- 
ram on the gate— he understands, that the attack at the 
back is a ruse; he rushes back to the gate- way; he fires 
down on the yelling crowd below; shouts to his men to hurl 
down on it anything heavy that comes to hand. “ If we 
only had some hot water or boiling oil ready, mutters 
the man, himself an old dacoit. But the long, clumsy 
matchlocks take a long time to load; it takes time to find 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 291 

missiles and carry them np to the top of the gate-way. The 
battering on the gate is not stopped or stayed. 

The young wife of Luchmee Pershad trembles in every 
limb, as each stroke sends a terrible reverberation through 
the closed court-yard. All the jealous safeguards against 
ingress now render egress impossible. The poor young 
wife and her weeping children and handmaidens cower 
down at each successive stroke, that seems to make the 
whole building tremble. Then comes a tremendous crash, 
and the court -yard below is filled with shouts and cries and 
the. sounds of confiict, and they know that all is lost. 

An hour has past. The moon looks down clear on the 
open space before Luchmee Pershad^s now rifled dwelling, 
and floods it with her silver radiance. Near the brightly 
gleaming platform of the well in its center stands a small, 
close ring of men, inclosing three figures, the three prin- 
cipals in the tragedy now being enacted on that small sur- 
face of the earth — Dya Ram, Luchmee Pershad, Pirthee 
Ram. The fortunes of the two famihes have intertwined 
and intermingled, amicably or inimically, for many gen- 
erations back. Rut never before have their destinies 
crossed in so terrible a manner as now. Luchmee Per- 
shad^s head is bare, thus exposing to view his shaven 
crown, from which the blood is trickling down; his long 
coat of fine linen hangs in shreds about him; he is covered 
with dust from head to foot. He trembles as if in an 
ague; the perspiration pours off him in streams. 

Speak! where are the rupees? the gold mohurs? the 
jewels,'’^ shouts Dya Ram, in a terrible voice. 

You have got them all,^^ squeaks Luchmee Pershad, 
from between his chattering teeth. 

Got them all. A few thousands' worth.. What you 
had above ground. Where is the hidden treasure? Point 
us out that." 

I assure you you Lave got it all," cries Luchmee Per- 
shad, eagerly, steadying his voice, with an effort. I Imve 
no hidden treasure place. I put all my money out at in- 
terest. That is why it will be more profitable for you to 
let me go. I can call my money in and pay you a heavy 
ransom. .1 could raise thousands in Hajigunje to-mor- 
row." 

Speak! Where is it? Speak!" howls Dya Ram. 


292 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL, 


‘‘ Speak, or I split thy skull in two/^ and he sweeps his 
sword over the bare head. 

Luchmee Pershad cowers down from'' the flashing steel 
almost to the ground. But when he raises himself again 
he still cries, though with panting breath, 

I assure you there is no more in the house. To-mor- 
row — ^^and then his tongue is protruding from his wide- 
open mouth, and his eyes seem aboht to start out of his 
head, for Pirthee Earn, the heavy-shouldered son of Dya 
Earn, has darted his hand under his chin, and seized him 
by the throat and compressed it. He contrives to make a 
gesture as if of assent. Pirthee Earn relaxes his vise-like 
grasp; lets him go. Luchmee Pershad stands panting and 
gasping, recovering his lost breath, which has so nearly 
left him forever. He has the miserable appearance of a 
half-drowned, half-killed rat. Around him is the ring of 
cruel, watching eyes. Above him, with his curved sword 
glittering in the moonlight, like Azrael, the angel of death, 
fowers L)ya Earn. Near him, he too panting and shaking, 
but with fierce rage and terrible excitement, stands the 
massive-framed, strong-armed young lad. A half-worried 
cat, a gaunt wolf-hound, a bull-dog fierce — thus they seem. 
They give the poor wretch time to recover his breath. 

“ Now, then, where is it?” says Dya Earn, sinking the 
point of his sword as if the affair were ended. 

“ There is no other money in the house; not a rupee!” 
gasps out Luchmee Pershad. 

“ Liar!’ ^ shouts the lad, and he throws himself on the 
wretched man in a paroxysm of rage, and hurls him to the 
ground and puts his foot on him. 

“ Take care! take care!” cry two of the men, jumping 
forward and thrusting him aside, and lifting Luchmee Per- 
shad on to his trembling legs again. “You must not kill 
him,” and they resume their places again. There is a 
pause. 

“ Wilt thou not tell us?” at Jength cries Dya Earn, again 
lifting his sword. 

“ I have told you,” snarls back Luchmee Pershad. His 
legs tremble under him, but his mouth is firm set; his eyes 
glitter like those of a ferret at bay. 

“ Squeeze his fingers in a split bamboo. That is pain- 
ful. It will make him tell,” says one man in the circle. 

“ Put his ankle between two clubs and draw them tight 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKlL. 293 

with a cord/^ says another. Keep tightening them until 
he tells you. That is how the police make people confess. 
It is an excellent plan.-’ 

Blow some red pepper up his nose or into his eyes/ ^ 
recommends a third. ' / 

“ Brand him with a hot iron/^ pipes a thin-voiced man. 
‘‘ If he does not divulge’ at the first or second application 
he will at the third or fourth. It hardly ever fails. 

‘‘ What I have seen done is this/^ says an old man, with 
i long white beard. “You dip some cotton or tow in oil 
and^wrap it round a thumb or finger, and then set fire to it. 
You might try that with him. 

“Get some long babul thorns and poke them under his 
nails,^^ says a man, with hardly any lorehead and very 
large cheeks. 

“ Here are rope and well both handy,^^ cries a one-eyed' 
man. “ Give him a dip in the water. 

“ Up with him, cries Pirthee Earn. 

They hurry him on : to the platform and to the edge of 
the well — -it is a very wide-mouthed one, so that those 
standing by the brink can easily see the water — and sling 
him by the rope, and then let him down into it. They 
lower him gradually, so that he may feel the descent, and 
then slack the rope suddenly, so that he plunges straight 
down into the water. He comes up spluttering, scream- 
ing, striking out wildly with his hands. He can not swim, 
as they know. They draw him up. He sinks down in a 
wet heap on the masonry. 

“ Will you come and show us now where the treasure is 
hid?^^ 

“ I will not. You may kill me if you like. I will never 
tell you. 

“ Give him another dive.^^ 

Again they lower him, very slowly, so that the horror of 
the coming plunge may have full time to act. They let 
him sink into the water. He comes up struggling wildly, 
clutching madly at the smooth, damp sides of the masonry 
shaft that give him no hold. He had said that they might 
kill him. But he can not let himself die. They let him 
sink a second time. There is an agonized cry as he rises 
again to the surface. They draw him up. They have to 
support him. They give him a little time. Will he now 
divulge .the family hiding-place, the secret of which is 


294 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


known to himself alone? He is quivering and trembling 
with cold and fear; his teeth are chattering in his head ; 
but the horrid water is not about him now; he clinches his 
little hands^ sets his teeth, looks at them with hard, set 
eyes. 

“Wilt thou tell us now?^^ 

“ There is no more money in the house. ^ 

“ If water will not do we must try fire,'’^ cries one of the 
men. 

“ Try the police plan of squeezing his ankles, cried the 
advocate of that plan of persuasion. 

“ If you had used the hot iron he would have confessed 
ere this.-’^ 

Needless to state which of the brutal modes of torture 
with which they all seem so familiar were put into opera- 
tion, which of them proved successful. 

Luchmee Pershad held out through many a moment of 
horrible pain; but his bodily vigor was gradually exhausted, 
so that his fierce, if small, spirit had to succumb at last. 
They return to the wrecked house. Luchmee Pershad 
points to one corner of a lower room. They dig down. 
They come to a square slab of stone with a ring on the top. 
They hoist it up. It discloses a small masonry chamber. 
Dya Ram^s eyes gleam as they look down into it. 

“ Yes; it is here,^^ he cries. “We shall be able to re- 
build the fort, my son, and set our house up again. 

“ Now let me go,^^ whines Luchmee Pershad. 

“ Let you go! Why, no, not yet!^^ cries Pirthee Ram, 
the . heavy-shouldered son of Dya Ram. “ Have we not 
got an account to settle? Did I not promise to make you a 
payment in full? Take your payment in full.” He raises 
the sword which he has had sharpened to so fine an edge 
for this very purpose, and swings it round and delivers 
Luchmee Pershad a blow on the neck which nearly shears 
the head off. The bleeding body lies by the side of the 
buried treasure which represents the good as well as the 
evil qualities of so many generations of men. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


296 


CHAPTEE XXXIX. 

HOME EULE. 

The very pretty station of Hajigunje yesterday presents 
but a sorry sight to-day. The usually trim and well-kept 
roads have not been swept this morning, are strewn with 
shreds and fragments. Of the pretty bungalows there are 
now but the skeletons left. Tall, gaunt, blackened/ totter* 
ing walls, floors heaped with ashes and rubbish, are all that 
remain of what were so lately the scenes of sweet home 
life, of kindly hospitality, of so much mirth and merri- 
ment. How gaunt and ghastly looks the blackened row of 
columns along the edge of this veranda, the roof that con- 
nected them together and gave them life and purpose gone. 
Around the houses lie fragments of glass and china, torn 
books, shreds of pretty dresses; the letters, so carefully 
cherished and preserved, that hold the smiles and tears of 
vanished and unreturning years, the sounds of voices long 
since still, are strewn about, flutter in the hedges, lie in tl£ 
gutters and ditches. Most of the public buildings still 
present their usual appearance from without; they have 
roofs that can not easily be burned. But they present a 
very different appearance within. The little church has 
been desecrated to as great an extent as it can be; filthily 
desecrated. The jail looks as it did yesterday, save that its 
gateway now stands wide open. The kutcherry, too, rises 
up long and solid and ungainly, as it, rose up yesterday. It 
is not difficult to account for the complete emptiness of the 
jail. But how shall we account for the complete empti- 
ness of the kutcherry? Yesterday, along the walls of these 
spacious office-rooms stood long rows of shelves reaching 
up to the roof, laden with books and bundles of papers; 
stood tall cupboards filled with records and documents, 
forms and statements innumerable. What has become of 
them all? Who has thought it worth while to carry them 
away? There was far more valuable plunder than old 
paper to be had yesterday. But they are not here. Where 
have they gone to? Into those two Mg heaps of ashes with- 
out the building. It was when the tumult was at its height 
last night, when bands of men rushed, with wild shouts. 


296 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


hither and thither, plundering, destroying, murdering; 
when in place of the usual quiet a great roar hung over the 
town of Hajigunje, when the station was illuminated by 
the blaze of the burning bungalows, that Dya Ram and his 
son Pirthee Ram, with their following, now greatly aug- 
mented, arrived at the kutcherry. They well knew that 
they were too late, but still they could not help rushing to 
the treasury. Yes; the door stood wide open; they would 
much rather have found it shut. They can not help rush- 
ing in. 

Of course there is not a single piece left in it,” cries 
Dya Ram, as his followers hold up their torches and 
illumine the once closely-guarded chambers. 

Of course he can not but feel sad, though he has deliber- 
ately foregone his chance of sharing in the plunder here, in 
order to carry out that piece of work nearer home — though 
the purpose of his coming now is not to see if there are any 
pickings left for him, but a different one, one which he 
can fully effect — that he should not have had a share in 
such a big loot as this. 

Then he sets himself to work to carry out the pih’pose of 
his coming. This was to burn every one of those books 
and papers, revenue records, police reports, records of 
judicial proceedings, bonds and deeds and registers, which 
had wrought him such woe. These should disappear from 
the surface of the earth and leave not a vestige behind. 
Two fires are soon blazing outside the kutcherry, their roar- 
ing fiames are soon rising high into the air, and do not de- 
scend for many an hour to come. On to them goes many 
a portly misl (file), and many a plethoric basta (bundle.) 
And when the work is done Dya Ram has inflicted a heavier 
loss upon the state than had the Sepoys who had emptied 
the treasury. These flames eat up the results of half a 
century of administration. Much that was burned was 
pure lumber, much of inestimable value, for it could not 
be replaced. 

The morning, at this season of the year a very busy 
period, is far advanced, and yet there is very little bustle 
or movement in the town of Hajigunje. A strange quiet 
prevails. The doors of almost all the private houses and 
of most of the shops are shut. About midday, this unusual 
^uiet of the streets and squares is broken by the rattle of a 
little drum, which takes the place of our bell, and of the 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 397 

voice of the public crier, crying, “Dunya Khuda Ka, 
Moolh Badsha Ka ” (the earth is the Lord^s, the kingdom 
the king^s), the" pious and preliminary formula which takes 
the place of our Oyez, Oyez. 

His excellency the Nuwab Asuf-ud-dowiah, full of grace, 
refulgent as the sun, benignant as the moon, the tower of 
strength, the fortress of safety, has, he proclaims, assumed 
charge of the soobah of Hajigunje on the part of his great- 
ness, his mightiness, Bahadur Shah, King of Delhi, mon- 
arch of Hindoostan, ruler of the.-universe, and all people are 
hereby enjoined to render due subjection to him. Let all 
men now engage in their usual occupations without feat. 
Let the merchants open their warehouses, the shopkeepers 
their shops. Peace and security shall now reign through- 
out the land. Let not the people have any fear. Let all 
men hear. “Dunya Khuda Ka, Moolh Badsha, Ka,” 
(Eattle-rattle-rattle). And let all men know that his 
Idghness the nuwab, in token of his assumption of office, 
will this day hold a public durbar in the court-house. Let 
all men take note. Moolh Badsha Ka,^^ (Eattle-rattle- 
rattle. ) 

The result of this proclamation and the information that 
most of the Sepoys have marched away to Delhi is, that 
the shops and houses begin to be opened and a certain de- 
gree of bustle and movement to prevail, though the owners 
of the more valuable classes of shops are slow in taking 
their shutters down. But^ soon the roads and streets begin 
to be more thronged than usual, for the people begin to 
flock in from the country to have a sight of the ruined sta- 
tion. Tliey begin to be densely crowded when the news 
goes forth that the nuwab will proceed from his palace to 
the court-house in grand procession. The streets in the 
town along which he is to pass, the wide road that runs 
from the town to the court house, are soon closely lined on 
either side with people. Let us take our stand on the 
avenue bordering the road. First comes the sound of dis- 
tant music. Not the harsh intermingling of sounds, the 
rattle and thump of drums, the clash of cymbals, and the 
braying of shawms, a mere dir: and dissonance, which 
represents the indigenous music, but well-ordered sounds 
delivered from well-made instruments. That tune is a 
Western one! Then comes the procession. First a portion 
of the band of what was lately the 95th Eegiment of Ben- 


298 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

gal [NTative Infantry, playing, ‘‘The British Grenadiers, 
the march of the regiment. 

Following these come a troop of nuwdb^s cavalry, looking 
the more picturesque because of complete diversity of dress 
and accoutrement, and of movement. 

Then followed a huge dromedary, superbly caparisoned, 
bearing a pair of kettle-drums with velvet casings, between 
which sat a full-blooded negro with green turban and in a 
coat of green velvet. 

Then came a band of the nuwab^s foot-soldiers, in vari- 
ous uniforms and bearing various weapons, flint guns, 
matchlocks, carbines, sword and shield, lance and pike, 
marching along in one mass and in no set formation or 
order. 

Then a beautiful camel, on which, in a saddle of green 
velvet with stirrups of .silver, sat a huge Afghan, with a 
magniflcent beard, in robes of green, holding aloft a silver 
shaft from which depended the green banner of the 
Prophet. 

Then a special guard of four troopers and their leader, 
clad in chain armor and carrying carbines. 

Then Amir Ali, wearing his green velvet coat with its 
Kincob breastpiece, seated in the handsome barouche which 
he had acquired the day before. 

More foot-soldiers. 

Then a large gilded stage-coach, procured from London 
at the beginning of the century by the nuwdb^s father, in 
which sits the nuwab^s brother. 

Two of the Hindoo vehicles known as ruths, with colored 
and gilded wheels and pagoda-like roofs; with silk curtains 
and hangings; drawn by superb pairs of bullocks, with 
high humps and large,- swinging dew-laps, having thrown 
over them a network of silk and silver; in which sit, cross- 
legged, two lately-appointed Hindoo functionaries of high 
rank. 

A band of the civil police armed with pikes. 

Then a stately elephant, his huge ears and forehead and 
the upper part of his trunk adorned with colored patterns, 
bearing on his back a handsome howdah, resting on a vel- 
vet saddle-cloth which Lends far down his sides, in which 
sits Zulfikar Ali Khan, the local preacher and leader of the 
holy war, in a simple white muslin long-coat, but with a 
green silk turban on his head, while behind him stands a 


THE' TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 299 

gorgeously-clad attendant waving over his head a whisk 
made of a huge peacock ^s tail set in a handle of silver. 

More pohcemen armed with pikes, on foot. 

Then comes the late Jemadar Sufder Jung, now occupy- 
ing a high military position, mounted on Colonel Monk^s 
pharger, and having two mounted orderlies, with drawn 
swords, behind him, riding at the head of half a company 
of Sepoys, marching in military order and with disciplined 
step. 

Then four camels walking abreast, the riders of which 
carry across their saddlebows matchlocks of great length 
and heavy caliber, meant to be used as field-pieces. 

Then a six-pounder gun, drawn by cattle, with its attend- 
ant artillerymen. 

Then four running footmen carrying silver maces. 

Then a troop of chosen horsemen. 

Then comes a huge and stately elephant, with enormous 
tusks, bearing a silver howdah resting on a gorgeously-em- 
broidered crimson velvet saddle-cloth fringed with gold, in 
which sits, in royal robes, the Nuwab Asuf-ud-dowlah, 
while behind him stands a splendidly-attired attendant 
holding over his head the red umbrella of state. 

The nuwab^s mounted body-guard. . 

Two of the nuwab’s riding-horses, of ample girth, and 
with the white faces and pink noses of good omen, their 
manes plaited and tied with red bows, their legs colored, 
with velvet saddles, and broad reins and standing martin- 
gales studded with knobs of silver, led by grooms carrying 
silver-handled whisks. 

His chief eunuch, the head of his household, richly clad, 
and mounted on a fine, large horse, which is led by two 
well-clad grooms. 

Two shikarees, or huntsmen, each leading a brace of 
deer-hounds. 

Two other shikarees, each bearing on his wrist a hooded 
falcon. 

The foofi soldiers of the nuwdb’s body-guard, sixteen in 
number. 

Following these rode Zubber dust Khan, a Mohammedan 
nobleman of the neighborhood, at the head of a miscel- 
laneous following of horse and foot. 

Behind them came Bhowany Singh, a Hindoo zemindar of 
the neighborhood, on his home-bred mare, at the head of 


300 THE TOUCHSTOlfE OF ' PEKIL. 

a, levy of his tenantry, some on horseback, some on foot, 
each man armed with the weapon he possessed, sword and 
shield, or pike, or club, or ax. 

Then at last, but not least, a band of Gazis, citizens of 
the town, Mohammedans, who had devoted themselves to 
. fight and die for the faith, in robes of green, each man 
bearing in his hand the sword of the Lord. 

The procession turns into the grounds of the court-house, 
the band playing “ Eule Britannia. 

The assembly is set in the large center room in which 
the English magistrate was wont to hold his court. It has 
been cleared out and specially arranged for the purpose. 
At one end a dais has been ^erected and covered with hand- 
some carpets. In the center of this stands a handsome 
chair, with high-carved Gothic back and crimson velvet 
cushions (it is the ‘‘bishop’s chair” from the little 
church), before which is placed a handsome footstool 
(taken from Mrs. Dyke’s drawing-room.) An open space 
has been left from the dais to the entrance doorway of the 
hall, and a strip of crimson cloth laid down along it. On 
either side of this, facing one another, have bden placed 
three rows of chairs. In these, in order and precedence 
due, sit the chief officials of the new regime, the men of 
highest rank of the town and the immediate neighborhood. 
In the space between the last rows of chairs, on either side, 
and the waHs, stand those of lesser degree. As even these 
are dressed in holiday attire, the assembly has a very gay 
and brilliant look. 

The procession has arrived. The first to walk up the 
hall, with stately'step and an ineffable look of pride upon 
his face, is Amir Ali. After him come Zulfikar Ali Khan; 
then Sufder Jung; then the chief eunuch, and the others 
who have taken a part in the procession. These take their 
stand upon the dais. 

A flourish of trumpets and the young nuwdb emerges 
from a side door on to the dais. He is splendidly attired 
in silken garment's embroidered with gold— his trousers are 
so wideL that they hang like a petticoat around his legs — 
and covered with jewels, literally from head to foot: there 
is a rich jewel in the front of his turban; in his ears large 
hoops of gold wire, on which are strung emeralds and 
pearls; a splendid necklet hangs down low on his breast; a 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


301 


little below the left shoulder is bound round his arm a 
precious amulet, a piece of jade on which are traced 
cabalistic characters; he has on gold anklets; his slippers 
are embroidered with seed pearls. He moves across the 
dais with what is meant to be a majestic gait, but which, 
more especially with his woman-like lower garments, looks 
more like an effeminate shuffle. His face wears the utmost 
look of hauteur it can assume. But it is very pale and 
haggard, for he has not long awakened from a drugged 
and drunken sleep. The excitement of the precediug day, 
the risk and danger of his new position, had proved almost 
too much for the mind and the body enfeebled by early 
excesses. He would, indeed, have broken down complete- 
ly, had he not been upheld by the strong will and passion- 
ate enthusiasm of Zulfikar Ali Khan. Zulfikar Ali Khan 
assuaged his first waking fears; the English rule had ceased 
forever; the English had been clean wiped out from Haji- 
gunje; he aroused what was one of the strongest qualities 
of the young man-’s nature, was now almost the only strong 
passion, saving cruelty, he had left — his vanity. The first 
immediate difficulty was to get the young nuwdb to leave 
the safe precincts of his palace, and play the part laid down 
for him. Zulfikar Ali Khan had painted in glowing colors 
the triumphs of the procession and the durbar; the brill- 
iancy of the one, the splendor of the other. The unopposed 
progress, the success, of the triumphal march, had elated 
the young man. The wan hue of a broken constitution 
would now never leave his face, or the bright luster of a 
full manhood ever again illumine his eyes. But as he 
walked across the platform, and surveyed the brilliant 
assembly, a look of almost childish delight alternated with 
the look of hauteur which he deemed it proper to assume, 
and it rose almost to elation as he took his seat on the 
throne, meant for such a different purpose. 

As he takes his seat the trumpets sound again, and a 
royal salute is fired from the twelve-pounder gun which 
stood in front of the court-house, and had been used for the 
purpose of giving the time, and the band strikes up, “ God 
save the Queen.'’^ 

Then Zulfi kar Ali Khan steps a little forward. From 
one hand depends a rosary, in the other he holds a Kincob 
bag or satchel. He holds this up and announces that it 
contains a firman from the King of Delhi (many high-sound- 


B02 


THE TOUCHSTONE OE PEEIL. 


ing epithets) appointing the Kuwab Asuf-ud-dowalah (many 
complimentary titles) ruler of the soobah of Hajigunje as 
originally constituted. A murmur of congratulations arises 
from the assembly, those of lesser degree behind the chairs 
giving vent to their satisfaction in cries and ejaculations — 
“ Thank the Lord!’^ — ‘‘ God be praised!^^ — “ Long live 
the king I “ May the sun of his glory shine forever!^'’ — 
“ Victory to the nuwdb!^^ — ‘‘ Prosperity to the nuwdb — 
In health and wealth long may he liveT^ 

Zulfikar Ali Khan process — 

Peace and prosperity, religion and piety, should now 
flourish throughout the land. Evil-doing, oppression, and 
injustice should now cease. The night was passed, the 
bright day come. The appointed hundred years of foreign 
domination were over; the dark age had passed, the true 
age come. All men should now live happily, and none 
should do them harm. Good, will and contentment should 
prevail. There should be no interference, open or covert, 
with the religion or caste of any man; the Hindoos should 
not be prevented from performing the ancient rite of Sati, 
Let all men follow their usual avocations without fear. 

He then goes on to announce that his highness the nuwab, 
the sea of knowledge and the ocean of wisdom, had been 
pleased of his graciousness to appoint that man of valor, 
experienced in war, the Sirdar Bahadur Sufder Jung, head 
of his military forces; to apppoint Moulvee Amir Ali, his 
trusty servant and well-wisher, to be head of the police and 
chief magistrate; and had been pleased of his goodness to 
intrust the charge of the treasury and the civil administra- 
tion of the province to that poor servant of God — himself. 
And with reference to the latter appointment let all men 
know that for the present his office would be held in his 
own house in the city; and thither let all men bring, at 
once, the sums of money in which they stood indebted to 
the state for the land rent, the excise, or the ferries; let no 
man hold these back because of the thought that the En- 
glish might return and redemand them. The accursed 
rule of the Eeringhees had ceased forever: let them be as- 
sured of that. 

Zulfikar Ali Khan retires to the side of the throne, and 
then the durbar is opened, and begins with the presentation 
of the usual nazars, or ceremonial gifts. 

Then some citizens come forward with complaints; their 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 303 

shoj)s were broken into last night and plundered; will they 
receive compensation? 

“ That/^ said Zulfikar Ali Khan, promptly, “ happened 
under the evil administration of the English; the present 
administration only began from now; such things should 
not occur in the future/^ Others come forward with 
various suggestions and requests; that the use of the public 
latrines should no longer be made compulsory, but that 
the people should be free to follow their old immemorial 
customs; that the butchers should no longer be allowed to 
kill kine. 

Two wild-looking men march up the hall, and, after 
making their obeisances, state that they have arrived at 
Hajigunje that day, and that they have with them — it is, 
in fact, now without the building — a fighting ram, which 
they believe, for size and strength and courage, to have no 
equal in Hindoostan. 

“ Have you, indeed cries the nuwdb, eagerly, for he is 
very fond of the sport of ram-fighting. “ Take him up to 
my palace — take him up to my palace — be sure that you 
take him up to my palace. Jungbaz Khan — turning to 
an armed retainer behind him — “ you go with them, and 
see that they take the ram up to the palace. On your head 
be it/^ 

Three Sepoys in full uniform — the uniform of the 
Honorable the East India Company*— now come up to the 
foot of the dais. They make their military salute all to- 
gether. Then one of them speaks — 

‘‘ Hoes the descendant of Mngs know at what price wheat 
is selling in the bazaar to-day?” 

‘‘ They had hoped and expected that under the new rule 
the price of grain would be lower than what it was under 
the old rule — lower under the benignant sovereignty of the 
King of Delhi than under the loose government of the En- 
glish pigs — but it was actually higher. Wheat was selling 
yesterday at twenty-four seers for the rupee, and to-day it 
is only twenty-two seers for the rupee. Was this to be 
permitted? Were the scoundrelly grain-dealers to be 
allowed to charge what they pleased?” 

‘‘ Of course not!” cries the new ruler, with animation. 

They shall not be allowed to rob the poor. We will crop 
their ears for them. They must sell cheap and not dear. 


304 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 

I will soon put this matter straight. Zulfikar Ali Khan, 
let an order issue that the grain-dealers shall sell wheat at 
tiiirty seers for the rupee, and no less, and see that it is 
carried out. 

Wall! Wahr^ cried the Sepoys. “ Yah usl raj hy ” 
(This is indeed a government!) And then they celebrate 
liis praises and pour out a string of complimentary epithets. 
The young nuwab snuffs up the sweet incense with thrown- 
back head. His countenance expresses the utmost height 
of delight and pride and self-complacency. 

Zulfikar Ali Khan is silent for a few minutes. Our 
thoughts and feelings, about which we make such a pother, 
depend very much on the chance of the time and place in 
which we happen to be born and live. Superior as Zulfi- 
kar Ali Khan is to them in natural gifts and endowments, 
he has precisely the same views on this subject that his fel- 
low countrymen and coreligionists have. His ideas with^ 
regard to interference with trade, and the fixing of prices, 
are no more advanced than theirs. He has the same horror 
of the trafiicker in human food, and is equally of opinion 
that he should be rigorously dealt with. But then these 
grain-dealers are a powerful body, and his doubt is whether 
it is wise to begin dealing with them rigorously quite so 
early. However, the question is shelved for the present by 
an interruption which takes place now. 

A rough country-lout rushes up the hall, and when he 
has got to the foot of the dais bellows out — 

‘‘ Humor! (The presence!) Feringhee! Feringhee!^^ 

The young nuwab gives a most unregal start. He trem- 
bles and his face becomes of a ghastly yellow. “ KyaF^ 
(What!) he falters forth. There is a great stir among 
those on the dais, a great commotion throughout the whole 
assembly. 

“ Wh^re?"^ asks Sufder Jung, who, like Zulfikar Ali 
Khan, has maintained his self-possession. 

“ In Hajigunje Factory. 

‘‘Dolt! Lout !^^ cries Zulfikar Ali Khan. “As if we 
did not know that before. How darest thou come here and 
disturb us with that horrid voice of thine, with thy bellow- 
ing. Get thee gone.-’’’ 

“ What does it mean, Zulfikar Ali EJian?^^ asks the 
nuwdb, in a more reassured tone. 

“ I had not time to mention it before ” — he had not done 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEKIL. 305 

SO p\irposely — “ but there are some of the infidels shut up 
in some of the buildings at Hajigunje Factory.-’^ 

“ How many of them?^^ his tone once more anxious. 

“ The indigo-planter and his wife and daughters, and 
three men and two women and two children from here. 

, Four men and five women/^ cries the nuwdb, his voice 
now firm and strong. ‘ ‘ But why have they remained 
there?^’ 

‘‘ Because they could not get away. Men have been on 
watch without the building. 

“Good!^^ cries the young nuwdb, exultingly. ‘‘Four 
men and five women! Where are they shut up?^^ 

“ In the old godown. You know it.'*^^ 

“ Well. We will march out ourselves and seize these 
infidels. To-morrow morning. Let the arrangements be 
made.^^ 

“ Sufder Jung and myself have already had a consulta- 
tion on the subject. Nothing could be done to-day because 
of the durbar. We have had many other things to arrange. 

“ They can not get away? Not in the course of the 
night ?^^ 

“ No; there are fifty men watching the place. 

“ Good. Double the guard. We shall march out early 
to-morrow morning, and capture this stronghold. The 
two beautiful daughters of the indigo-planter are in there. 
Ha! ha! Good. Allah be praised! They shall be in our 
power to-morrow. One of them shall be given to you, 
Zulfikar Ali, as I promised. The elder one. The younger 
one for myself. 

“ Hush!^^ said Zulfikar Ali, below his breath. “ Speak 
not thus in public. 

The business of the durbar is resumed and goes forward 
for another hour or so, and is then brought to a close by 
he customary distribution of “ utr and pan. 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE ASSAULT. 

Theee is that shiver of cold in the air that betokens the 
coming day, and the eastern horizon has begun to redden. 
All the members of the little garrison are awake; they have 
been awake a long time, aroused by the joyful news that 


306 


THE -TOXjCHSTOI^E OF PERIL. 


water has been reached in the well. They have enjoyed 
long, delicious draughts of the still muddy water; they 
hav^e enjoyed the almost greater refreshment of washing 
their hands and faces. John Neale is almost beside him- 
self with joy. His usually rather still and hard-set face is 
covered wdth smiles; he laughs and talks and jests gayly. 

Now it will not matter if we are not relieved for a 
couple of days — a week.^'’ 

It seems, however, that they are to be relieved at once, 
for Bird, who is on guard on the roof, shouts down to say 
that there are horsemen on the plain. 

“ The party from Agra,’’^ is the general cry. 

They all rush on to the roof, and are soon standing along 
the parapet wall at the back of the building. There is no 
doubt of it: a group of horsemen at one edge of the plain. 

“ They would hardly approach from that side if they 
came from Agra,^^ says Steele. 

“ They do that to dodge the enemy/^ cried Dacres, joy- 
ously. They would not come the direct road.-’’’ 

The horsemen, having left the road they have been rid- 
ing on, and entered on the firm, hard surface of the plain, 
emerge from the cloud of dust that has hitherto hung 
around them. They now come more clearly into view, and 
continue to do so more and more as they ride at a gallop 
straight toward the walls of the little fortress. 

“ They are natives,^^ says Steele, quietly. 

The exulting hearts of the gazers sink within them. 

“ Never cries Dacres. 

“ Yes; and one of those two horsemen in advance,^^ goes 
on Steele, quietly, is mounted on the coloneBs first 
charger. 

“ So he is, by Heaven!” 

“ It is a party from Hajigunje.” 

The crisis has come. 

What a sudden and terrible revulsion there is in their 
feelings now! exultation and hope give way to despondency, 
to dread. 

- ‘‘ And the man on the coloneBs horse is that scoundrel, 

Sufder Jung. I know his figure and seat,^^ cries Dacres. 

“ It is,^^ says Steele, quietly. 

“By Jove! there is Cavalier!” cries young Bird, ex- 
citedly, recognizing his own horse, the first he had ever 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OE PEEIL. 307 

owned. “ Who is the fellow on him? If he comes within 
range I must have a shot at him. 

“ I do not recognize him/^ says Sfceele, nor do any of the 
others either, though this man has lived within a mile of 
most of them all the time they have been in Hajigunje, 
and is a prime mover in the present movement, mutiny, or 
rebellion, as you please, against them: it is Zulfikar Ali 
Khan. 

The horsemen now draw up some five hundred yards 
off, and it is seen that the four other horsemen form an 
escort to Sufder Jung and the man on Sulivan Bird^s 
horse. 

‘‘ They have come out to reconnoiter/^ says Steele. 

The attention of the anxious gazers is now attracted in 
another direction. From behind the shelter of the cactus- 
crowned mound encircling the grounds of the old mauso- 
leum advances on to the plain a large body of horsemen 
and foot-soldiers. They have in their midst a huge ele- 
phant, bearing a silver howdah, in which are seated a couple 
of men. Sufder Jung and the other horseman gallop for- 
ward to meet the cavalcade. 

It is the nuwab of Hajigunje,^ ^ says Keale. “ I know 
the big elephant. I have often had him out shooting. 

Many of the women have screamed at the sight of this 
array. 

‘‘ It is hot an attacking party, says Steele, but still 
the ladies had better go down below and leave the roof 
clear. Tell Mrs. Graham to get breakfast ready. 

The ladies and children hurry down into the court-yard, 
and keep together in an anxious, trembling group. 

The nuwdb and the two horsemen seem to be holding a 
consultation; in a few minutes the united parties retire be- 
hind the corner of the compound and are lost to view. 

The attack will be delivered on this face, from behind 
the inclosure, as I thought it would be, says Steele. 

But this forecast seems likely to be falsified when Bhola 
Misr comes and reports that a battery is being thrown up 
right opposite the gateway, and when, on hurrying to the 
gateway, they find that it is so. 

‘‘ We had better open fire on them, and prevent them,^^ 
cries Dacres, excitedly. 

‘‘We could not, says Steele. “ It would be a mere 
waste of ammunition. I believe they merely wish to divert 


308 THE TOTJCHSTOIirE OP PERIL. 

our attention from the other face. What guns have 
they?'’'’ 

“ There is the kutcherry gun/^ says Bird, referring to 
the twelve-pounder used for the purpose of giving the time. 

“ The nuwdb has a couple of six-pounders/^ says Neale. 

They will not do as much damage with them. They 
may amuse themselves firing at the gate if they like. Let 
us go down and have our tea. We must also pile up some 
more sacks and firewood against the gate, more especially 
against the wicket. Keep your eye on the earthen bank, 
Forde (Forde was on guard in the gateway bastion), and 
report at once should you see any movements there. The 
attack will be made from behind it, I am sure. ’’ 

A sudden bang, a heavy thud, and the court-yard is filled 
with a hollow sound that makes, the women start and 
tremble. Chloe Neale shrieks aloud, and files into her 
mother ^s arms. Mrs. Forde draws her children closer to her. 

“ You will hear a good deal of that,^^ says Steele, but 
do not let it trouble you. They can not break down or 
force the gate. But I must go up and see what they are 
about. 

A puff of smoke, a loud report, the whiz of the flying 
shot, and then a crash as it strikes the masonry, or a deep, 
hollow thud as it strikes the gate. As the ground between 
the gateway and the three guns is as flat as a bowling- 
green, and the distance not great, the enemy have no diffi- 
culty in striking the lofty gate, and so the deep thud and 
the hollow roar in the court-yard come now at regular in- 
tervals. From behind the buildings which lie not quite op- 
posite, but a little on one side of the gateway, a matchlock 
fire is opened on the front face of the old godown, and the 
bullets strike fast against the breastwork, or go pinging 
overhead. 

“ Keep back! Keep down! Keep well below the breast- 
work!'’^ cries Steele. You must not expose yourself like 
that, Dacres. There must be no firing until I order it.'’^ 

He then himself hurries to the bastion at the other end 
of the south face of the building, the face which lies direct- 
ly opposite the corner where the earthen banks forming the 
north and west boundaries of the grounds around the old 
mausoleum meet.* He looks down into the grounds. He 


* See diagram, page 263. 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


809 


has not a v6ry clear view because of the thick, shrouding 
trees, but still he can make out that a number of men are 
moving forward toward the corner. He hears a continu- 
ous, hollow sound , and, listening carefully, soon makes out 
what it is, the sound of digging. This sound proceeds 
from a point of the bank almost opposite the bastion on 
which he is standing, and completely masked and shaded 
by a couple of young but dense-leaved mango-trees. But 
he has no doubt that the sound, which grows louder, is the 
sound of digging. It flashes across him what it means. 
They are cutting a gap in the bank. He makes certain 
that the attack will be delivered from here, and he hastens 
to make his dispositions accordingly. 

He places Neale and his shikaree and Forde in the bas- 
tion which lies nearest the gateway, Dacres and Bird and 
Sawyer in the bastion facing, the corner of the inclosure: 
Bhola Misr is to keep watch on the north and west faces of 
the building; he leaves himself free to move about. 

The men get to their places none too soon, for now from 
behind the whole length of the opposing bank a sharp fire 
opens on the face of the building flanked by the two bas- 
tions. From between the prickly shrubs, along the top of 
the bank, leap out the little jets of flame, rise up the little 
puffs of smoke, issue forth the hurrying missiles of death. 
Pat pat go the bullets against the masonry, thud thud 
against the barricade or breastwork, and fly so thickly over 
the roof as to make passing along it dangerous work. But 
Steele moves quietly from one bastion to the other, though 
he will not let any of the other men expose themselves. 
The continuous rattle of musketry here is accompanied by 
the rarer sound of the guns firing at the gateway, as the 
rattle of small drums is accompanied by the boom of the 
big drum. Suddenly the bank, at the point where Steele 
had heard the sound of digging, is crowned by a gang of 
men armed with spades and pickaxes. They dig away 
rapidly at the top of the bank, throwing the earth outward 
into the ditch, and a great gap appears in the bank so 
rapidly as to show that the greater part of it had previous- 
ly been cut away from within. Then Zulfikar Ali Khan 
and Sufder Jung are seen to come galloping up to the cor- 
ner where the two banks meet; a signal is given; and 
through and over the gap in the bank a large number of 
men rush on to the plain. They carry a ladder. They 


310 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

make straight for the bastion opposite them. They move 
very quickly over the flat, smooth plain. Steele gives the 
signal, a wave of his sword. The fire from the bastion 
occupied by the three young men, Dacres and Bird and 
Sawyer, is hurried and ineffective. The fire from the other 
bastion is more effective, and two men drop under it. But 
the rush of the attacking party is not stopped, and, before 
the defenders can reload, it has carried them over a third 
of the space between the bank and the building. 

“Aim at the men carrying the ladder, says Steele to 
Neale, in one bastion; and then rushing through the storm 
of bullets over to the other bastion, “ Take more steady 
aim,^^ he cries to the young fellows there. 

As the stormers near their goal quicker grows the fire 
from behind the bank. Steele and Forde take steady aim 
and drop two of the men carrying the ladder, and at the 
same moment the three Englishmen in the other bastion 
rush up to the edge of the breastwork and fire down on the 
men now close below them, this time with better result. 
Four men have fallen to the ground. The impulse that 
was carrying the attackers onward is lost; the men drop 
the ladder; they scatter; some run forward into the ditch, 
but most run back to the bank. Zulfikar Ali Khan and 
Sufder Jung ride back behind the inclosure. The first 
attack has failed. 

Dacres has received a bullet through the fleshy part of 
the left shoulder. As Sawyer hastily binds up the wound 
he advises Dacres to go below. 

“Not a bit of it,^^ says Dacres, “ I mean to see this 
business out.^^ 

In the other bastion the brave old shikaree has been shot 
dead. They place his body out of the way. Steele meets 
Bhola Misr in this bastion. 

“ Did you remark anything in the firing, sir?^^ asked the 
old man, hurriedly. 

“ Yes, it was more of a matchlock fire than a musket 
fire. " 

“ Quite so. There are very few Sepoys here, very few. 
They must have all gone off to Delhi. The men behind 
the bank are chiefly the nuwdb’s soldiers or villagers. 

“ So much the better for us.’’^ 

The fire from behind the bank which had slackened — 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF P:fiKIL. 311 

and for a short time wholly ceased as the attacking party 
ran back to its shelter — now recommences* 

Steele has congratulated himself that he has not against 
him his own highly-trained Sepoys, but only the half- 
trained soldiery of the nuwdb, and wholly untrained vil- 
lagers. Little does he think that he is to meet his most 
formidable foe in some of the ordinarily peaceable citizens 
of the town, less accustomed to the use of arms than the 
peasantry even. 

Zulfikar Ali Khan and Sufder Jung ride back to where 
the nuwab is seated on his elephant at a safe distance from 
the point of strife. There is a brief consultation. Then 
Sufder Jung rides back without the grounds to the corner 
of the inclosure, while Zulfikar Ali Khan rides up within 
the grounds toward the gap in the bank. He dismounts 
when he is some distance from it, and proceeds toward it 
on foot. > A Ititle way behind it he halts. A band of men 
soon gather round him. You can tell by their garments 
that tliey are of various ranks and professions, but whether 
the turban and long robe be of coarse cloth or fine, they 
are all of one color, green. These men carry but one. 
weapon, the sword. It is the band of Gazis who closed the. 
nuwfib’s triumphal procession yesterday. Many a time and 
in many a place has the desperate valor of these Moham- 
medan fanatics put to the proof the steadiness of our own 
men, with all their superiority of discipline and of arms. 
While the fierce spirit is at work within them they are utter- 
ly regardless of death; they are then eager only to kill or 
be killed; either wins them the undying joys of Paradise. 

Zulfikar Ali Khan leads these men up to the gap in the 
bank. He halts them close behind it. He addresses them. 
Let no man who, when once without the safe shelter of the 
bank, would care to reseek it, follow him. He himself will 
never return to it. Let only those who are prepared to 
conquer or die hold up their swords with him.^ He pulls 
round his sword belt, and, drawing his sword, flings it high 
above his head. Twoscore of the sickles of death flash in 
the sunlight with it. 

''Allah aJcder !” {Godi is great!) shouts Zulfikar Ali 
Khan, and dashes out of the gap in the bank. 

"Allah akher Aiowt the men, and pour out of the 
opening like the dammed backwater through the breach in 
a dike. ' 


312 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

Zulfikar Ali Khan flies across the plain with a swiftness 
that is astonishing considering the strain he has put on his 
physical energies; considering that, most of his life has 
been passed in a recumbent posture, in sitting down or 
lying down or reclining. But when the soul exerts her 
full energy she makes up for the weakness of the body. So 
fierce is the enthusiasm of Zulfikar Ali Khan that though 
most of his followers are stronger men than he, men more 
accustomed 4io physical exercise, to bodily exertion, he' 
keeps ahead of them all until he reaches the spot where the 
ladder lies. But they are very close behind him. The 
ladder is picked up in the run. At that moment the two 
bastions flash out their fire: four men fall, two dead, two 
wounded; but the fanatics, as we should say — the men of 
God, the patriots, as they would say — pause not in their 
rush; and ere the defenders have reloaded the assailants 
have reached the edge of the ditch. The closer they are 
under the walls the better for them, so far as the fire from 
the bastion they are assaulting is concerned. Sufder Jung 
gallops forward and places half a dozen picked matchlock- 
men in the opening in the bank, and directs them to con- 
centrate their fire on the top of this bastion. Young Suli- 
van Bird has rushed forward to the breastwork, and, 
leaning over it, is about to fire down on the men below, 
when a shot strikes him in the shoulder; he falls against 
the top of the breastwork, carries away a large piece of it, 
falls over the parapet wall, and drops into the ditch at the 
foot of the bastion. They are down upon him like a pack 
of wolves, and his body is covered with a dozen gashes, 
each in itself sufldcient to cause death. A yell goes up 
from the men behind the bank, and they redouble their 
fire. A yell goes up from the men now close clustered 
round, the foot of the bastion. They hoist the ladder up; 
the head of it is run into the gap in the breastwork, the 
outer slope of the ditch affords an excellent resting-place 
for its foot. Zulfikar Ali Khan had meant that he should 
be the first to mount that ladder. But the unwonted ex- 
ertion of the run has told on his enfeebled frame, and for 
the moment he stands by panting, breathless, uuable to 
move; only Just able to stand. The first to Jump on to 
the ladder is one Kulloo Khan, a strong, wiry, active man, 
a thatcher by trade, and so accustomed to the mounting 
of ladders. Him follows close one Kusti Khan, a profes- 


813 


, THE TOTJCHSTOHE OF PEEIL. 

sional athlete. The two men are quickly at the top. The 
air is rent with the shouts of, Fateh ! fatch (Victory! 
victory !) from the men behind the bank, from the men be- 
low the bastion. The men behind the bank, in the open- 
ing, cease firing. Kulloo Khan is now standing on the top- 
most rung. Keale has taken a shot at him as he went up 
the ladder, but missed him. Kulloo Khan steps into the 
opening in the barricade: he is now standing on the top of 
the low parapet wall. He pauses for one moment to deter- 
mine his course of action. Before him, a few paces ofi, 
are the three Englishmen. But three men! If he can cut 
down one and grapple with another there will be but one 
man left to oppose the ascent of those that follow him ! He 
prepares to leap forward, but that moment^s pause has been 
too long by the full length of forever. 

Dacres has clubbed his empty rifie, and rushing forward 
deals the brave stormer so fier(^ a blow, across the chest vdth 
the stock as to sweep him into the air, and he goes head 
downward to the ground. Dacres is a little way on one 
side of the gap in the barricade; in it now appear the head 
and shoulders of the second stormer, Kusti Khan. One 
of the local jokes in Hajigunje used to be to get “ Bob 
Sawyer out shooting, in order that he might display his 
marvelous, power of missing. But he does not miss now. 
He is kneeling right opposite the gap. He fires and sends 
his bullet straight through Kusti Khan^s naked chest (he 
has discarded his long coat in order the more easily to 
ascend the ladder), who falls back upon the two other men 
who are coming up the ladder behind him. These jump 
ofi the ladder. 

“Back, Dacres! back!^^ shouts Steele to Dacres, who 
has remained standing by the side of the barricade, the 
upper part of his tall frame fully exposed above it, though 
the fire from behind the bank has now recommenced. 
“ Back, man! back!'’^ shouted Steele. “ Down on your 
knee. Take this other gun.-’^ (Dacres had splintered the 
^tock of his rifie.) 

And now the fire of the men in the gap in the bank 
opens hotter than ever on the top of the bastion. They 
direct it as much as they can to the top of the ladder. For 
no sooner has the ladder become vacant than Zulfikar Ali 
Khan has begun to ascend it. His dress is ill fitted for 
the work, and he mounts slowly, but he has not far to go. 


314 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERII,. • 


One man follows close behind him, two others stand at the 
foot of the ladder ready to follow the moment they can. 
Fiercer than ever grow the yells and cries. Apart from his 
rank and station Zulfikar Ali Khan holds a high position 
in the regard of his coreligionists as a holy man, a saint, a 
teacher; they hold him almost in superstitious reverence. 
And has he not assured them of victory on the faith of the 
promises of the Koran? He will secure it."’^ 

Khuda Tia-fiz!” (God the protector!) they shout. 
“ Allah ahher they shout. 

Forde advances to the edge of the other bastion, now 
occupied only by Keale and himself. He fires at Zulfikar 
Ali Khan; the bullet strikes the side of the ladder. Zulfi- 
kar Ali Khan has reached the top of the ladder; his head 
is still below the level of the parapet wall, but his hand is 
on the topmost rung. Keale now steps forward to the 
breastwork from which Forde has retired to load. He him- 
self has loaded very carefully. There, a little below his 
own level, not more than sixty yards off, clear against the 
sky, hangs, as it were, the body of Zulfikar Ali Khan. 
Why, he can make certain of breaking a bottle at that dis- 
tance! If he himself is left alive for two minutes Zulfikar 
Ali Khan is a dead man. He takes quiet and steady aim: 
his head goes down; his body becomes rigid; his eye glances 
along the barrel; he will take Zulfikar Ali below the 
shoulder, the upraised right arm exposes the side. He 
fires, he hears the thud that he has heard so often in the 
hunting-field, and then he reels back, struck himself by a 
bullet in the side. Zulfikar Ali Khan sways in the air; he 
clings convulsively to the sides of the ladder; his body 
sinks; the man below him tries to support it, but he can 
not hold up the now lifeless mass; it fafls to the ground. 
In place of the late cries of encouragement and triumph 
there goes up from the men behind the bank, from those 
clustered round the foot of the bastion, a wail of sorrow 
and distress. The firing ceases from behind the bank*. 
Steele rushes to the gap in the barricade and beckons to 
Sawyer and Dacres to follow him. They seize the head of 
the ladder and hurl it to the ground. 

“ Come along to the other bastion, then cries Steele. 

They see Keale lying behind the barricade, but they can 
not attend to him now. 

“Give it to them hot/' cries Steele, and the four En- 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


315 


glishmen pour a volley from their double-barreled guns into 
the mass of green-coated men gathered round the body of 
Zulfikar Ali ^Khan with deadly effect. They do not wait 
Tor another volley. The fierce fire of their enthusiasm, 
which had begun to sink from such long inaction, has been 
quite quenched by the fall of their leader. They separate, 
they disperse; some run round the foot of the bastion; 
some run across the open plain; some run back to the 
shelter of the bank. Steele and Porde lift Neale up and 
carry him back and lay him in a reclining posture. 

“ They have done for me, doctor!^-’ he says, in a faint 
voice, as Sawyer bends over him. 

‘‘ I hope your prognostication is unfounded,^ ^ says Saw- 
yer, as he throws open his blouse and shirt; but he looks 
grave when he sees the position of the small blue mark on 
the side. 

Steele^ now calls to Bhola Misr to come and strengthen 
their numbers, while Sawyer is busy with the wounded 
man. But the failure of the second attack and the death 
of Zulfikar Ali Khan seem to have had a wider effect than 
the mere dispersal of the band of Gazis. It seems to have 
had the effect of causing the enemy to withdraw his forces 
entirely for the present. Not only has the firing from be- 
hind the mound ceased, but they observe that the cannon, 
which have continued to fire at the gate- way and the front 
of the building all this time, are being withdrawn also. 
When Steele observes this he thinks they are about to 
change the mode of attack. 

‘‘1 fancy Sufder Jung sees that he has been making 
wrong use of the guns, he says to Forde. “ He ought to 
have used them in helping forward the attack on the bas- 
tion. He ought to have demolished our breastwork with 
them. Perhaps he is bringing them round for that purpose 
now.^-’ 

As he is speaking Sufder Jung himself is seen riding for- 
ward toward the walls, waving a white handkerchief. They 
advance to the breastwork. Sufder Jung pulls up below 
and makes his military salute with his sword. He has 
come to propose an hour^s truce in order that they may 
remove their dead and wounded. A truce is concluded, 
one of the conditions of which is that the body of poor 
young Bird shall be carried by the enemy round to the gate- 
way, as Steele does not think it wise for any of them to go 


i 


316 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


round for it. Loud is the weeping and wailing, great the 
beating of breasts, as they lift up the body of Zulfikar Ali 
Khan, the martyr, and bear it away. They carry off the 
other dead; they carry or help away the wounded ; they 
wrap the body of Bird in a sheet and bring it round to the 
gate-way, and lay it down before it. The garrison is too 
weak in numbers to be able to run the risk of treachery, 
and open the wicket to receive the body from their hands; 
none of the defenders have, in fact, left the roof as yet. 
They kept jealous watch notwithstanding the truce. 

After the terrible noise and tumult there is something 
ominous in the deep, succeeding silence. The Englishmen 
know not what it may portend; under what fresh form the 
attack may be renewed. They keep anxious watch. They 
redouble their vigilance. Their loss, both with regard to 
numbers and to quality, has been terribly heavy. But the 
quiet and silence only deepen as the anxions moments go 
by. The heavy cloud of smoke that has hung over the 
scene of the late attack has almost spread itself away to 
nothing. The excitement of the combat over, they begin 
to suffer from the terrible heat of the sun. What can the 
enemy be about? What new form of attack are they pre- 
paring? Why have they moved the guns? On what point 
will they direct their fire now? 

A little after the end of the hour, which has seemed three 
to them, a man appears at the gap in the bank and comes 
toward the walls waving his hand. 

“ It is my son-in-law, exclaims Bhola Misr. 

It is the Sepoy they had excluded the night of the out- 
break. 


‘‘ What is the news, Jowahir?^^ cries Bhola Misr. 
“ What has become of the nuwdb^s men, of the attacking 
force, of the guns?^^ 

“ All gone back to Haiigunie.^^ 

“ All?^^ 


“ Yes, all. ” 

“ What is the reason?^'’ 


“ Dya Ram of Hurchundpore took advantage of the 
nuwdb and^ his troops having coming out here, to try and 
take possession of Hajigunje and seize the, nuwab^s palace. 
He is attacking it now. The nuwdb has hurried back to 
defend it. There will be a battle between him and Dya 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 


317 


Ram. Dya Ram has proclaimed himself Rajah of Haji- 
gunje — disputes the nuwab^s title. 

“ Then we are free to go away. 

‘‘No. There is a body of villagers on the watch. They 
have withdrawn behind those buildings in order that you 
may think the coast clear and try to get away, when they 
would make a rush on you.^^ 

“ Sir!’"’ said Bhola Misr; “ as we are now so reduced in 
numbers had we not better take my son-in-law inr^^ 

“ Yes,” said Steele. “ Tell him to creep along the ditch 
to the gate. He can enter when we open the wicket to 
take in the body of the dead gentleman, 


CHAPTER XLI. 

DEATH OF ME. NEALE. — THE LAST SIGHT OF HAJIGUNJE 
FACTOEY. 

Theee lies before them now the sad task of carrying - 
down to his wife and children the husband and father 
whom they know to be mortally wounded. Steele goes 
down first to prepare Mrs. Neale to receive him. He finds 
her and Mary standing side by side. “You are wounded 
again, says the latter, remarking that Steele's sleeve is 
not merely stained, but dripping with wet blood. Her tone 
of anxious solicitude thrills him through, and he gives his 
usual sign of emotion by stroking the end of his long, thin 
nose with his forefinger, but this is not a time for the in- 
dulgence of feelings such as these. He must address him- 
self to the task before him. 

“It is only the old wound broken out afresh,” he says; 
“ but I am sorry to say your father is wounded.” 

“ My husband?” cries Mrs. Neale, quickly. 

“ Father?” 

‘^Yes— ” 

“ Is he — ^is he badly wounded?” cries Mrs. Neale. 

Her anxious eye catches the emotion on Steele's face. 
“ He is not dead!” 

“ No — no — but he is very dangerously wounded — ” 

“ I understand!” she says, in a low, quiet voice. 

Steele feels that she understands fully, and he marvels 
at the self-command and self-control of the usually so 
easily moved woman. 


318 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

A wailing ‘‘ Oh!^^ had burst from Mary^s lips, but she 
prevents any other cry from issuing from them, though she 
can not prevent the tears from running fast down her 
cheeks. 

As she looks up at Steele she sees that his eyes are full 
of tears. 

You must not give way,^’’ says Steele, huskily, and be- 
ginning to bustle about, “ he will want some one to nurse 
him. We have to get a bed ready for him. I will pull 
this bedstead into a cool and shady corner of the veranda. 
Will you go,up and get some bedding. Miss Neale?^^ 

Mary rushes up the stairs, and then flies down them 
again, bearing a quilt, some sheets and pillows. 

Are you preparing this bed for my husband asks 
Mrs. Neale, who had stood quite motionless, as if her feet 
were flxed, as if she were rooted to the ground, on the self- 
same spot where she had heard the fatal news, now nioving 
forward to the head of the bedstead. ■ ‘ Let me do it. I 
.know how he likes his pillows-— that is too low, Mary.'^^ 

He does not know what chance there might have been 
of saving his life had there been any instrument with 
which to probe the wound, and try and extract the bullet, 
but Sawyer has seen that, as things stand, the wound is a 
fatal one. He can only direct that they shall assuage his 
raging thirst and sustain his waning strength with brandy 
and water. Mary flies for these; She puts the tea-spoon to 
those dear, paling lips. He has hitherto been quite un- 
conscious. His lips had long ago, years ago, lost their En- 
glish redness, but they have never before been of the ashen 
paleness they are now. But after Mary has given him the 
brandy and water for some time he begins to revive; his 
eyes begin to see, and they brighten; there is a faint smile 
on the ashen lips, the flame of life which had seemed on 
the point of extinction leaps up, leaps up perceptibly, 
though it be to no great height, as he perceives his wife's 
face bending over him. How his eyes fix on her face, and 
follow it as if they would not lose sight of it for an instant, 
as she arranges his pillow, bathes his forehead with the 
water she has got ready, smooths back his hair, fans him. 

“ You always were a kind' nurse, Nance," he says, in 
low, faint accents. : 

Mrs. Neale's eyes fill with tears, her lips quiver, as she 
hears that fond, girhsh name not heard now for twenty 


THE TOUCH STOKE OF PERIL. 319 

years, but she controls herself bravely; stops not fanning 
him for an instant. He has now caught sight of Mary^s 
face. She has knelt down by the side of the bed, and he 
faintly moves his hand toward her, and she presses her lips 
upon it, and bathes it with her tears. 

‘‘ (to up and bring some more shawls, Mary — ;the pillow 
is not high enough, says her mother, softly." 

Ohloe too had bent over the bed when they had first laid 
him down upon it; but she had not been able to control her 
feelings; she had burst out into loud and terrible weeping, 
had soon become hysterical. 

The strain of the past hour had been very terrible on 
them all. And on this the first-permitted occasion for sor- 
row all her own pent-up griefs of the last few days, and 
they were very bitter ones, have found sudden vent. Mrs. 
Neale signs to Dacres. He comes forward and puts his 
arm round Chloe’s waist and leads her away, and seats her 
on a log of wood, and, placing himself by her side, soothes 
and comforts her. Let it not be laid to Chloe^s charge that 
she joyed in this comforting as she had sorrowed when 
Dacres turned away from her. We are all very near to 
ourselves. 

“ I must go now and attend to my other patients,-^’ said 
Sawyer, after h6 has helped to place Neale in what he con- 
siders the best position for him, which he does very care- 
fully and tenderly. “ Will you come with me. Miss Neale? 
I want some one to help me, to prepare and hold the band- 
ages and that sort of thing. 

Mary looks toward the bed. 

“ You may leave him. It is better that he should be 
quiet; that the bed should be surrounded by as few persons 
as possible, so as not to exclude the air from him.^’’ 

It occurred to Mary long afterward that Dr. Sawyer had 
wished to give her occupation in order to distract her 
thoughts. 

They find that every man in the garrison is wounded. 
Bhola Misr has received a severe wound in the hand, of 
which the brave old man has said never a word. Sawyer 
dresses it quickly and skillfully, and he handles the coarse, 
hard fingers as gently as if they were those of a delicate, 
white-faced girl. 

Of all of them Forde has presented the most terrible ap- 
pearance when he descended into the court-yard. His face 


320 


THE TOtJCHSTOHE OF PEEIL. 


wgis dabbled all over with blood. Mrs. Forde had shrieked 
loudly as she ran up to meet him; Ethel had shrieked as 
he lifted her up to kiss her, though that action had reas- 
sured his wife, and she feels herself ag'ain when she hears 
him say, in his usual strong, quiet voice, 

“ It is nothing at all. A mere scratch on the head.^^ 

Guy continues to hold his father^s hand, while he looks 
up at him with a look of admiration and delight, not un- 
mingled with awe. With what interest does he watch the 
dressing of the wound! When Sawyer has washed the 
matted hai r and lifted it up, he sees and proclaims that 
though a long cut it is a mere scalp wound. 

‘‘ I think it was caused by a splinter from the breast- 
work,^’ says Forde. 

You are mistaken in that supposition,” says Sawyer; 
“ completely mistaken. It is the cut of a bullet. A little 
more to one side and it must have caused a fracture of the 
bone. It is very curious to reflect, Mrs. Forde, that a very 
slight change in the direction of that bullet would have 
ended your husband’s life. If you had been looking aJittle 
more this way, Forde,” adjusting the head with the fingers 
of both hands, you would not now have been standing on 
your feet. A very clean cut. ” 

I Mary wonders how the man can be so kindly in his work, 
so callous in his talk. 

Next he cleans and dresses and rebandages Steele’s 
wound. While he is doing so Mary sees from Steele’s face 
that he is suffering great pain. Sawyer shakes his head as 
he looks at the wound. 

‘‘ There is much inflammation. You should not have 
taken it out of the sling.” 

Steele had the scarf Mary had put on the night before 
hanging from his neck. 

“ I could 'not move about freely with one arm in a 
sling.” 

“No; but you must put it in the sling now, and keep 
it quiet, or the consequences may be seriops. ” 

He then proceeds to attend to Dacres. When Chloe 
Neale had discovered that Dacres was also wounded, she 
had nearly relapsed into her hysterical condition. But he 
had^ sustained and soothed her. When she had inquired 
anxiously and fearfully about his wound he had made light 
of it. The Dacres of to-day, aroused and animated by the 


THE TOU( HSTOKE OF PEEJL. 


3;>l 


conflict, ill which he has borne himself so well, is very dif- 
ferent from the Dacres of yesterday. And how sweet and 
tender is her sympathy! 

When they were crossing the court-yard to find Dacres, 
Mary and Dr. Sawyer had again passed the corner of the 
veranda where Mr. Neale lay, his usually florid face now 
deadly pale, his eyes half-closed, his breatlnng labored; his 
wife sitting by his side, and fanning him. 

‘‘It is very sad — most distressing!^^ said Sawyer. 
“ Quite heart-breaking.^" 

Mary"s eyes filled with tears. She thought he referred 
to her father. (Neither she nor Ohloe had as yet realized 
that their father was mortally wounded — that death had 
begun to steal over him from the moment he was struck.) 

“ And I could have brought them with me so easily."" 

“ What do you mean.^-"" says Mary, surprised. 

“ Though to be sure I had to vacate my house with such 
exceeding precipitation, that I had not time to t hin k of 
anything else but that. But still what chances to lose! I 
have always been most anxious. Miss Neale, to get some 
practice in the treatment of wounds received in battle, which 
of course is the proper work of an army-surgeon — gunshot 
wounds and others; and now when such excellent oppor- 
tunities are afforded me, the first that have presented them- 
selves, I can not utilize, take advantage of them, for want 
of instruments. It is very unfortunate. Most distressing 
—I am deeply disappointed. If I had had my instruments 
here I think I should have taken one of Bhola Misr"s 
fingers off. You could have looked on. Miss Neale; it is a 
very pretty operation."" 

Then, while the anger raised by this speech is still upon 
her, Mary sees the great skill and exceeding gentleness 
with which Sawyer handles and dresses Dacres"s wound, 
and it fades away and gives place to admiration, wonder, 
liking. After all, the speech may be forgiven for the deed. 

The moment Mary is released from the duty Dr. Sawyer 
had imposed upon her, and which does not occupy her very 
long, she flies back to her father "s side, and remains there 
for the rest of the day, her whole thoughts absorbed in him 
and his condition. It was not until long afterward, for 
this was but the beginning of a long period of tribulation, 
that Mary Neale"s thoughts could go calmly back to tliis 
period of her life, that she could reflect quietly upon its 


322 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

occurrences, connect them with her thoughts, derive a les- 
son from their teaching. But as they occur to ourselves 
now, it is as well to record them here. 

Mary Neale ^s chief fault was an excessive belief in the 
rightness of her own judgment. It can not be said that 
she. ever quite lost this; she was likely to retain it as long 
as her present head was on her present shoulders^ But 
she, at all events, learned to struggle against it, to restrain 
it, to prevent it from being so overweening as it had been 
in her eailier years. She had learned to distrust its infalli- 
bility in the very direction in Vvhich she had most trusted 
it, with regard to the characters of other people. Why, 
here she had seen a complete reversal of her own previous 
judgments. Dr. Sawyer had been a ‘‘ donkey and a 
‘‘ fool;^^ how absurd his solemn, sententious manner and 
bis long-winded sentences; how absurd had been his court- 
ship, how ludicrous his proposal of marriage! And yet 
what fine qualities he had displayed! Notwithstanding his 
flat, square face and absurdly arranged hair, he had borne 
hardship uncomplainingly: notwithstanding his short, 
square figure, he had confronted peril bravely; he had 
proved himself unselfish, thoughtful for others; in his own 
special work prompt, capable, kind. She had despised 
Sawyer and been mistaken, she had glorified Dacres and 
been mistaken. He had a handsome face and had done an 
unhandsome deed: how noble his figure! not so his con- 
duct: how perfect his dress! but not so his bearing in the 
time of trial. She had credited him with heroic valor and 
adamantine fortitude. She had seen these fail. True, 
Dacres had given highest proof of the possession of active 
courage in the fierce struggle of the assault — how often did 
Steele dwell on it with generous warmth — gave distin- 
guished proof of it subsequently in the course of that and 
the succeeding year. But she had seen him fail in passive 
fortitude. lie had not maintained the fullest height of 
manhood; he had given way under the pressure of physical 
sufl'ering. 

Then Steele, the niggard and the miser as she deemed 
him, with his long nose and scrubby little whiskers and 
narrow shoulders, had proved himself the hero of the de- 
fense where there were so many other good men like her 
father. He had taken the place of leader as she should 
never have prognosticated. She had never thought of in- 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 323 

vesting him with the high, heroic qualities of courage, forti- 
tude, magnanimity, generosity, capacity for great deeds, 
with which she had endowed Dacres; but events had enabled 
him to prove that he possessed them all in an equal, and 
most of them in a superior, degree. 

So when in after-years she was inclined to look down on 
others; to despise them, because of their weakness or fool- 
ishness, she paused as she considered that possibly in time 
of trial they might prove themselves wiser and stronger 
than herself. She learned in an especial manner that as 
we can not possibly know all the circumstances which gov- 
ern and regulate the lives of others, we should be very care- 
ful of passing judgment on those outer manifestations 
which are all we see. She, then, in common with others, 
learned how much deeper human nature is than color, than 
difference 'of rank or creed or nationality. They felt then 
the common brotherhood. They learned then how de- 
pendent we are upon one another. They learned then 
what noblest qualities may dwell in those of humble rank. 
Which of them had borne that time of trial more nobly 
than Mrs. Graham? How silently she had borne the afflic- 
tion of the loss of her daughters, which Mary knew was as 
terrible to her as it could be to any mother; how quietly 
she had set aside all thought of personal comfort and de- 
voted herself to the seiwice of others! Her simple and nat- 
ural and complete devotion of herself to providing for the 
wants and comforts of others, without care, or rather 
thought, of the discomfort to herself; had pierced even 
through the thick folds of provincial and local and official 
pride in which Mrs. Dyke was swathed. 

That day Mrs. Neale and her daughters could not turn 
their attention or devote their services to any one but the 
husband and father. Mrs. Forde was occupied with at- 
tending -to her husband, to Ethel, who became very ill with 
fever. Poor Bird was dead, and so there waa no one to at- 
tend to Mrs. Dyke but Mrs. Graham, and during the whole 
of that day, when she was not employed in cooking, and it 
was no pleasant task bending over a fire on such days as 
those, Mrs. Graham sat' by the side of Mrs. Dyke^s pallet, 
bathing her head and fanning her. So that a miracle was 
wrought. She who. had been the wife of a ‘‘ member of 
council,^ ^ actually tlianked the half-caste wife cf a band- 
master for a service rendered! She did it very loftily, as 


324 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

one thanks an inferior; she did it in very broken Hindoo- 
sta,nee, for though she could really speak that language very 
well, from having always been in the habit of gossiping 
with her ayah, and getting from her all the information 
about her neighbors she could, she held it undignified to 
do so, and therefore spoke it after the English manner; 
but she thanked her. 

Only one moment^s more pause to say, that it was quite 
ludicrous to observe at that time, in 1857, how high a posi- 
tion the ordinarily despised ‘‘ British soldier came sud- 
denly to acquire in the esteem and regard of his fellow- 
countrymen! 

Breakfast is now ready: Mrs. Graham has been quietly 
preparing it all through that anxious hour and a half, all 
through the din and tumult, all through the flying of bul- 
lets and the dying of men. And all the members of tha 
garrison, save the mother and daughters seated by the bed- 
side of the dying man down-stairs, and Mrs. l)yke, lying 
oh her pallet upstairs, are gathered together to partake of 
it. And they eat their cakes heartily and drank their tea 
with relish, for are they not very hungry and very thirsty! 
The demands of hunger and thirst are imperative. The 
business of eating and drinking must go on. How many 
of us are there whose death would cause more than two 
people to forego one single meal?^^ 

But they eat and drink very quietly and in silence, for 
the awe of death — death come and death coming-^is upon 
them. Yonder is the door of the little room in which they 
have laid the body of poor young Sulivan Bird. They 
mourn deeply the sad death of him who had been the com- 
j^anion and friend of them all; cut off in the heyday of his 
youth; but lately so full of life, so keen in his enjoyment of 
it; whose spirits had been as high as his hopes; Vho had 
been so cheery and so manly. ^ 

And yonder is the rude bedstead on which lies the dying 
man — their companion and their friend. They persuade 
Chloe to come and eat a little unleavened cake and drink a 
little tea. But Mrs. Neale and Mary will not quit their 
posts by the bedstead, or forego for a moment the task of 
moistening his lips and fanning his brow. They take them 
cups of tea, but Mrs. Neale ^s is left untasted. She feels 
that she could not swallow it, even if her spirit did not re- 


325 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 

volt against the thought of refreshment for herself at such 
a moment, for with all her outward calm he'r terrible grief 
is nearly strangling, choking her. And now the dead 
weight of the fiery day is upon them again. Again have 
the men on watch on the roof to pass the midday hours in 
the miflst of the terrible heat and glare, with the blistering 
rays of the sun falling straight on their necks and hanrls 
and faces, and flaying them. Again have those below to 
endure the terrible^ stifling, suffocating heat. Again have 
they to endure the torments of the flies and the mosquitoes. 
But the tortures inflicted by the heat, and the torture of 
the heavy weight on the head, the torture of the ever- 
tightening ligature round the forehead, make them obliv- 
ious of every minor ill. The place has become a burning 
fiery furnace. And so the weary hours drag on. 

Poor Mr. Neale presents the sad spectacle of quiescence 
and unrest, of stillness and want of repose. His bed is to 
him a place of confinement, but not of rest. The mind 
and body are both fettered, have lost the power of full 
action, but have not found oblivion of repose. He lies 
upon the bed, the rest of the body motionless, but his head 
rolling upon the pillow from side to side unceasingly, with 
sad* persistence, weary continuance. His wife sits by his 
side fanning him, never removing her eyes from his face. 
Mary sits by moistening his lips. To them the terrible 
heat has become a thing of nought. Poor Chloe sits on 
the floor at the foot of the bed, with her head resting upon 
it. The wounded man has not spoken since he addressed 
those few words to his wife. It is the beginning of the 
afternoon. The sun has gone round to the west. There 
is a patch of light on the wall at the foot of the bed. Mrs. 
Neale sees the lips move, a faint smile comes on them. 
She bends down eagerly over him. And what did old 
Specs say, Jackson?^ ^ he murmurs, feebly. They had been 
boy and girl together. She follows his thoughts. They 
have gone back to his school-days; to the school of which 
old Specs was the head-master, and where Jackson was 
his dearest friend. How her heart contracts with a terrible 
sadness. She keeps bending over him for a time. But 
there is no further movement of the lips. She resumes her 
old position. She keeps on fanning him. But now the 
weary roll of the head ceases. His eyes fix on the patch of 
light on the wall at the foot of the bed. His fingers are 


S26 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

clutching at the sheet. Mrs. Neale observes a sudden 
change come over his face, 

' “ Call Doctor Sawyer, Mary. Quickl'^ 

As Sawyer bends over him, Neale makes quite a strong 
'movement as if to lift himself up; Sawyer raises him'a lit- 
tle, supporting him with one arm behind his back. Mrs. 
Neale bends forward. 

“ I have often spoken harshly to you, Nance — ’’ the 
words are low but quite distinct, as if he had gathered 
together all his strength to speak them. ' 

“Oh, never, John! never sobs Mrs. Neale, with the 
tears now pouring in torrents down her cheeks. 

‘ ‘ But I always — The tongue has ceased to speak. 
Sawyer lays the dead man gently back upon the pillow. 
And then Mrs. Neale, all her power of self-restraint gone, 
throws herself down upon his breast, and bursts out into 
wild sobbing and weeping. The sounds of the weeping of 
her and her daughters bring all their fellow-prisoners 
around them. Tears stand in the eyes of the strong men. 
For some time they have to let Mrs. Neale abandon herself 
to her grief, for she will not allow them to move her. 
Then Mrs. Forde lifts her up with gentle, womanly firm- 
ness, and leads her tenderly away. Dacres comes forward 
and leads poor, weeping Chloe to the foot of the stairs. 
Mary Neale stands by the side of the bed and ’looks down 
on his face. And this is the end of the meeting looked for- 
ward to through so many years! 

“ You must leave him in our hands now for a short 
time,^^ says Steele, in a low, pitying voice, and he takes 
her by the hand and leads her away. 

They perform the last sad offices for the dead man in 
what fashion they may, and bring a clean white sheet and 
cover him with it, and then they carry the rude bedstead 
into the cooler and darker inner chamber, and place it by 
the side of the bedstead on which lies the body of the young 
fellow to whom had been accorded so much shorter a span 
of years, so much less of the sweet and bitter experience of 
life. 

And then they begin discussing how they shall dispose of 
the dead bodies. 

The remaining hours of this sorrow-weighted day have 
passed. The sun has sunk, but the air is still full of vivid 
light. Forde is on watch, with the son-in-law of Bhola 


327 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PEEIL. 

Misr, on the roof. Suddenly he hears a great comjnotion 
behind the mass of buildings facing the gateway. At first 
he can not see what is happening. ^ There is the sound of 
firearms, the galloping of horses, the shouting of men. 
Then round the corner of the buildings comes a group of 
horsemen who make straight for tlie gateway. Even 
Eorde’s steady beating heart gives a bound as he sees they 
are Englishmen. 

HoaJcum dar (AVho comes there?) challenges the 
Sepoy. 

‘‘ Friends/^ replies a peculiarly deep, strong voice, which 
Forde recognizes at once as that of an old college chum and 
brother civilian. 

NichollsI” he shouts. 

Is that you, Forde?"" 

“Yes."" ' 

“ Come down and open the gate, old fellow, and let us 
in."" . 

Who shall depict the delight of that meeting, the joy of 
that deliverance? What a handshaking there is all round, 
what questionings and congratulations! That is Dacres’s 
laugh. How are their hearts lifted up that lately were so 
terribly cast down. Even the sisters in the midst of their 
deep and heart-breaking grief, can not but feel a sensation 
of happiness. But the poor wife"s sorrow is made only the 
more crushing by the thought that he can not share in that 
deliverance which he would have welcomed with such tri- 
umphant joy? She presses her hand upon her heart as she 
sees the look that would have been upon his face, hears the 
sound of his rejoicing voice; the sound of the voice that is 
still. 

As both the men and horses of the relieving party, hav- 
ing been out all day long in the broiling sun, are sorely in 
need of rest and refreshment, and as it will be necessary to 
find a carriage for the ladies and children, the leader of it 
announces that the return journey will not be commenced 
until midnight. 

Then comes the question of what is to be done with the 
dead. Mrs. Eeale pleads hard for their being taken into 
Agra and laid in safe and consecrated ground. But the 
officer in command of the relieving force, a kindly but de- 
termined man, will not hear of this. 


328 


THE TOUCHSTOIs'E OF PERIL. 


He has come to bring in the living and not the dead/^ 
he saysi curtly. 

They determine to bury them in the court-yard, where 
they will be safest from molestation of man and beast. 

Three or four of Mrs. Neale’s servants have come hurry- 
ing into the old godown as soon as they hear of the arrival 
of the relieving party, and among them is the old watch- 
man, whose voice had so startled the sisters on the night of 
their arrival at the old mausoleum and which has sounded 
in their ears almost every night since, and. he declares that 
he will keep watch over the spot and see that it is not dis- 
turbed. They propose likewise to smooth the grave over 
so that it may escape notice, and mark its position by 
measurements. A marble cross now rises over the spot. 

They dig the pit veiy deep. And now the two bodies are 
placed by its side. And then, by the flaring light of the 
little oil-lamp and the moonlight, which in itself would 
almost have been sufficient, Steele reads out from the little 
prayer-book which Mary had slipped into her pocket the 
night of their escape the sublime Order for the Burial of 
the Dead of the Church of England. The bodies are low- 
ered down and laid side by side. 

“ Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me. Write. 
Eroni henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the 
Lord; even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their 
labors. ” 

And now the cavalcade is moving across the flat, open 
plain, and making for the imperial highway. And just be- 
fore they pass within the shady avenues of the road, Mary 
Neale, sitting at the bottom of the roughly made, spring- 
less, jolting cart, so different from the vehicle in which she 
had approached it a half year before, looks back through 
her streaming tears, and sees in the sparkling moonlight the 
heavy domes and light cupolas of the old mausoleum stand- 
ing out clear against the sky. It is her last sight of Haii- 
gunje Factory. 


CHAPTER ALII. 

MARRIAGES Als^D DEATHS AifD THE END. 

They reached Agra in safety the next day. To Mrs. 
Neale and her daughters the succeeding months must have 


. THE TOUCHSTOisE OF- FEEIL. 329 

been months of grieving in any case. They were months- 
of anxiety and apprehension, of danger and discomfort, and 
physical suffering as well. There was no rest and quiet for 
them at Agra. Their own terrible loss had taken place at 
the beginning of the period of great tribulations pr(M)ared 
for the Christian people of Northern India. That time of 
great tribulation was yet to come. The darkest tragedies 
had yet to be enacted ; the most miserable sufferings yet to 
be endured. They had, of course, to take a share in the 
fears and alarms and despondency, the bodily discomforts, 
the sufferings of mind and body, of their fellow-countrymen 
at Agra, They had with them to seek a shelter behind the 
lofty battlements of the great fortress reared by Akbar. 
After having passed eight months in a Mohammendan tomb 
they had to pass four months, with infinitely less of com- 
fort, in a Mohammedan palace. It w^as amid the halls of 
the great Moguls that they comjDleted the round of their 
first Indian year. They had passed the cold weather and 
the hot weather at the old mausoleum, they passed the re- 
maining ’ season of the rains in the fort of Agra. It was 
here that they witnessed the breaking of the monsoon. It 
was a sight that became a lasting memory in the life of 
Mary Neale. 

She and her mother and sister were seated at the window 
of the one small room which now constituted their whole 
dwelling-place. It was small and dark and close, though 
a palace-chamber; though it had been the bed-chamber of 
queens — how poorly w^ere queens -and princesses lodged of 
old — in what dungeon cells do they and noblewomen and 
gentlewomen still pass their lives in the East. The heat 
in it is terrific. They are seated by the window gasping 
for air. The room is situated at the very edge of the bat- 
tlement which goes down sheer beneath their feet to the 
waters of the Jumna. 

That window commands a very fine prospect, though at 
this moment you would hardly think so, the view is so com- 
pletely blotted out by the excess of light. The heat is ter- 
rible. There is a dead stillness in the air. The heat seems 
to increase; the air to get even more close and still. The 
restless sparrows sit still with open beak. The other birds 
have sought the shadiest coverts. The cattle lie down in 
what shade they can find. Solitary men move about with 
wrapped-Lip heads. The tension in the air grows stronger. 


330 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

They gasp and pant. They are oppressed and uneasy. 
Suddenly there is a commotion in the heavens and upon 
the earth. Birds come out of their coverts, men out of 
their houses, cattle out of the shade. The upper air is filled 
with kites, whirling in wide circles, screaming shrilly; the 
lower air with crows flying in companies, cawing loudly. 

There is a storm coming; the monsoon is about to 
break,"" Cries Mrs. Neale, who knows the signs. 

Their window faces the east. Along the far-distant and 
low, level line of the horizon, they suddenly see a deep blue 
band. It rises up and becomes a deep blue curtain. And 
now against that dark blue curtain flash out, bright and 
clear, the snowy domes and minafets 6f the fairy-like Taj 
Mahal. Mary Neale was to hear that day some words that 
she never forgot. This was a sight that she never forgot 
bither. The curtain has risen up higher, billowed out, lost 
form, broken up into clouds. There is a distant, sullen 
roar. Greater grows the commotion on the earth and in 
the air. Men are heard shouting to one another ydth glee- 
ful voices, Panee aya V’ (The water has come!) The 
cattle begin to scamper about with upraised tails. The air 
is now full of birds, screaming, cawing, chattering, flying 
hither and thither, blown about by sudden blasts, trying to 
beat up against the wind. Pouf! a little gust through the 
window. Their breasts heave up. What a relief! What a 
refreshment! They live again. How delicious that first 
mouthful of the cool, moist air. And now across the face 
of the advancing blue mass runs an intensely white line, 
and the earth is shaken with the crash of the thunder. 
The clouds roll up to the zenith in huge, mountainous 
masses. The tempest blast has reached them, strikes 
the battlements in all its fury. The flashing lightning 
blinds them. The crashing thunder deafens them. From 
half a mile or more off the softly rushing sound of 
^ the falling rain has reached them; and now the refresh- 
" ing deluge is over them, and the descending torrents 
iiide everything from their view. Heavily and steadily, for 
an hour or more; pours the rain. How their parched 
frames rejoice in the superabundant moisture which now 
fills almost to surcharging the lately oppressive air! The 
rain gets less and ceases. The storm mass has rolled away 
to the west, and left but a few scattered clouds behind. All 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 331 

nature rejoices. The earth sends up her grateful incense. 
Dejected nature has revived and laughs out loud. 

. People who have been sitting still or lying down, over- 
powered by the heat, now move briskly about. Mrs. Porde, 
who with her husband and children occupies the adjoining 
chamber, now comes in to share with them the delight of 
the wonderful change. She and Mary step out into the 
balcony before the window to look down on the beautiful 
landscape now to be seen to best advantage, which seems 
only now to have come into existence. Those palm-trees 
have only now sprung up; that temple has only now been 
built; that ravine, leading down to the river, has only just 
been cut! they were not to be seen half an hour ago. An 
atmosphere has taken the place of the shimmering haze. 
Distance is now marked by gradation of color, and hot by 
diminution of size alone. The forhis of things can now be 
seen, their relative places determined. 

They look across the valley of the Jumna. The bank 
just opposite tliem is fringed with palm-trees. The broken 
ground beyond is strewn with the ruins of old mausoleums. 
Beyond that stretches away into the distance the grove- 
covered, village-crowded plain of the Dodb. A little above 
them, and on this same western bank, rise up the white, 
clustering houses of the city of Agra, and the river below 
it runs by^pretty, temple-crowned bathing-places, and under 
the shadow of majestic trees; while, on the other bank, op- 
posite the city, are summer-houses and orchards and garden- 
surrounded mausoleums. Just below them the river makes 
a superb bend, and at the end of the majestic curve, from 
the water ^s edge rise up the white marble domes and min- 
arets of that “miracle of rare device, the peerless Taj 
Mahal, the crown and glory of the scene. 

“ Mary, dear,’^ says Mrs. Forde, “ I have brought you 
some good news. 

“ What is that?"^ 

“ That Captain Steele has reached Delhi safely. 

“ Has he, indeed? I am so glad.'’^ 

Steele had volunteered to carry dispatches from the head 
of the local government at Agra to the general command- 
ing the force that now lay before Delhi; a service of great 
importance and danger. 

“ They say he will get the Victoria Cross for it.^^ 

“ I am sure he deserves it. 


333 


THE TOUCHSTOKE OF PERIL. 


I shall be delighted. Next to Will "'—that was her 
husband— I like him best of all the men I have ever 
known." 

These times have taught us/" said Mary, musingly, 

how strangely mixed our natures are; how much of go^ 
and bad, high and low, weakness and strength, there is in 
all of us. No one apparently is all gold or all clay. It is 
surprising to see directly contradictory qualities in the same 
person, like the timidity and the courage which are so curi- 
ously combined in my mother. But I suppose one should 
not be surprised at finding high and low qualities in the 
same person. This seems to have been the case with so 
many men one reads of in history. I suppose a man may 
be very brave and yet a miser. Such, in fact, was the case 
with Marlborough, as described in that old volume of 
Macaulay, which is the only book we have in here, and 
which I have read about seven times over. "" 

But we were talking about Captain Steele."" 

‘‘ It is to him that my remarks refer."" 

^‘Howr"" 

I mean that he should be so brave and yet so niggard- 
ly-^^ 

John Steele niggardly!"" 

‘‘ He was thought so in Hajigunje. Poor Mrs. Zouch — 
strange that we should not have heard anything of her yet; 
she may have got away down country — used to call him the 
Miser. "" 

‘‘John Steele a miser!"" and Mrs. Forde laughed. 
“ Why, his natural tendency is very much the other way: 
if not to ward. extravagance, at all events toward carelessness 
with regard to money. He would certainly find it more 
easy to spend money than save it. What in these days they 
would call his hereditary instincts certainly lie that way. 
His grandfather and his father were both spendthrifts of 
the first water, and that, is why John Steele is now soldier- 
ing out here instead of living on his own property in Eng- 
land."" 

“ How is that?"" 

“ I have known John Steele from a boy. My father had 
a small property near the Steeles" estate* It was in 
Gloucestershire. It was not a very large one, but the 
Steeles had been on it for generations. The grandfather 
was terribly extravagant and dipped the property heavily. ' 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


333 


Old Squire Steele, John Steele father, was not quite -so 
wildly extravagant, but he was very careless. He was one 
of a, large family. The estate was heavily burdened with 
jointures. He was fond of hunting; kept a large stable 
full of horses; the house was always full of company. 
When ho married, his wife, John^s mother — a very sensible 
as well as a very beautiful woman — tried to bring about a 
change, and in some measure succeeded. But the mischief 
had been done. Debts that can not be paid off accumulate 
fast. She postponed but could not avert the fatal day. 
Old Squire Steele thought he could retrieve the fortunes of 
the house on the turf. To avoid the sandbank he ran into 
the whirlpool, which soon swallowed up all. The loss of 
the old ancestral home and property broke the old man’s 
heart, and he died. Mrs. Steele had money of her own. 
She and her eldest son, our friend John, found that by 
giving up this, and all else they possessed — he was then of 
age — they could just manage to pay off all the debts not 
otherwise met. They did so, and went away from the old 
hall, Brierly Hall, with literally nothing but the clothes on 
their backs. Mrs. Steele borrowed a few hundred pounds 
from a brother, and went to live on the Continent. John 
got a commission in the Company’s army — he had been 
reading for the bar — and came out here. The aim and 
end of his e'xistence was reduced to paying off this debt, 
supporting his mother and her other children. Fortunate- 
ly, there are only two of them, a boy and a girl, both very 
junior to John. He has paid off the debt, but the boy is 
now of an age when his education is beginning to be costly. 
So I fanc}^ the greater part of John Steele’s income still 
goes home. He has not much left to spend. ” 

But you never mentioned this — ” 

“We were only a month or so in Hajigunje, and then 
came this mutiny. Besides, he does not like it talked 
about. But I do not think he would mind my mentioning 
it to you. ” 

The emphasis brings the color into Mary’s cheeks, now 
much more pale and sunken than they had been six months 
before. But hers was not a beauty that depended on the 
full curves or bright color of the cheeks. Sorrow and suf- 
fering had enhanced, not diminished it — spiritualized it. 
During the past three centuries and a half of their exist- 
ence these palace chambers have held many a noble and 


334 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

beautiful face — “ lights of the world and ornaments of 
the palace — but never did a more noble or beautiful face 
look out from those lofty battlements over the winding 
Jumna than the one that does so now. 

‘‘ How very noble of him. 

“ He would be- the last person to consider it anything 
extraordinary. A great number of men out here do the 
same tiling. A great number of the men who have made 
their mark out here have come of poor parents; and if you 
will read their lives you will see how largely they con- 
tributed to the support of those they had left behind them, 
of the homefolk. Munro, Malcolm, Macaulay, Outrain, 
the Lawrences. It was their duty and their pleasure. It 
is a duty held most sacred by the people of this land. Chris- 
tians, Englishmen, could hardly fall below their standard.'’^ 
Very noble of them all. And then he must have seen 
that he was being misjudged, that people were forming a 
false estimate of him/^ 

He may have cared for such a misconception of his 
character by some peopUy’^ says Mrs. Forde, with a look at 
Mary that brings still more color into her cheeks; almost 
as much as she had on them that morning when she first 
drove up to the old mausoleum so full of health and happi- 
ness and eager expectation; but I fancy he is very careless 
of public opinion — almost to a fault. 

“ Of course a person may have a fine quality of one kind 
and a poor one of another — be brave and yet be parsimon- 
ious. But it does seem strange that a person can be lavish 
and parsimonious both, as is often the case. That they 
should be brave and timid, like my mother. A sailor may 
be fearless on board his vessel,^'’ goes on Mary, pursuing 
the current of her own thoughts, and timid on lK)rseback. 
I wonder Captain Steele is not a better horseman. 

‘‘He happens to be a very good horseman. We have 
often laughed at the difference between that old horse he 
had at Hajigunje and the ones he used once to ride. The 
people down in our part of the country used to say they did 
not know which would break his neck first, old John or 
young John — meaning John Steele or his father. I fancy 
he was really the best rider in Hajigunje, not even except- 
ing Colonel Monk.-’^ 

‘^Poor old Peterl^^ said Mary, softly. 


THE TOUCHSTOXE OF PERIL. 335 

I must go now and look after the children/^ said Mrs. 
Forde; get them out into the fresh air.-’^ 

Mary lingers on in the balcony, watching the lovely even- 
ing that follows the grand thunderstorm. The setting sun 
sends a golden radiance over the land as it has not done for 
three months back. But in Mary^s eyes there rests on the 
beautiful landscape that seems to have sprung into exist- 
ence so suddenly a greater glory than that due to the golden 
light: there is in it some strange, new charm. 

And when her mother and Chloe come out on the bal- 
cony they think a similar thing has happened to Mary, that 
on her face is a new charm or glory. 

Dear me, how bright you look, Mary!’^ cries Ohloe. 

‘‘It is wonderful what a difference a shower of rain 
makes in people>^^ says Mrs. Neale. 

Place yourself, kind reader, once more, in imagination, 
by my side. \Ve are once more on the top of that selfsame 
hill on which we took our stand at the beginning of our 
story. We are not now on the highest peak of it, however, 
for we do not wish to command a distant view, but to have 
a near one. We have placed ourselves on the level plat- 
form won with some difficulty from the steep hill-side for the 
purpose of building on it a church. It is a most delightful 
day in the most delightful month of the delightful Hima- 
layan year, October. The air is cold and crisp, exhilarat- 
ing as wine; the sunlight sparkling, but not too bright. 
There is “a crystal clearness all about. The banks 
around us are still green with grass, bright with flowers. 
The hill-sides are clothed with tall and stately trees: cedar 
and cypress and pine. Above all bends the clear blue sky. 

“ A day so calm, so clear, so bright, 

The bridal of the earth and sky.” 

so that the merry marriage-peal that is pouring out into the 
great cistern of air beneath us is very appropriate. 

It has ceased for some time, but now again the merry 
chimes float out, and ring from hill to hill. The little 
plateau is crowded with horses and ponies and the grooms 
who hold them, with sedan-chairs and the various liveried 
porters who carry them. There is a sudden commotion. 
Two figures appear at the church-door, step out into the 
bright, clear air. This officer, in the picturesque uniform 
of one of the recently raised Punjab regiments, with three 


336 THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 

decorations oji his breast^ among them the coveted one of 
the Victoria Cross, is he whom we last met as Captain 
Steele. His always somewhat sallow face has been burned 
by the exposure of the last two years — two years of con- 
stant campaigning — to a deep, dark brown; it is even 
thinner than before, so that the long, thin nose is more 
than ever conspicuous; but it bears, as always, the unmis- 
takable stamp of gentleman: is ennobled by high thoughts 
and deeds; is at this moment, in the truest sense, beauti- 
ful; there is on it so radiant a look of joy. And leaning 
on his arm with no angelic — we must recast our worn-out 
phraseology and bring back to the earth the fair beings we 
have translated to the skies — but a most beautiful human 
look upon her face, also with a great, though veiled and 
shy and tender joy beaming out from her soft brown eyes, 
and playing about her exquisitely chiseled, sensitive lips, 
comes she whom we last met as Mary Heale. To our mind 
there never was a more beautiful face than that of this lady. 
But there are a great many here who think that the hand- 
some couple is the one that follows. And certainly Percy 
Dacres, with the somewhat redundant proportions of his 
face and figure pared down'by the hard work and exposure 
and enforced abstinence of the past two years, looks very 
handsome in the gorgeous uniform of the irregular cavalry 
corps to which he now belongs; and on his stalwart arm, 
in all the bloom of her soft, childish beauty, her fair cheeks 
tinged the color of the rose, her shining blue eyes now cast 
down, now shyly lifted up, a pretty smile upon her pretty 
lips, leans one who was as pretty a child, as pretty a >girl, 
and as pretty a woman as you would care to see — the pretty 
Chloe Neale; Chloe Neale no longer, but bearer now of the 
name she has always so greatly admired. And there are 
not wanting some who say the sweetest and prettiest face 
here is that of the lady with the snow-white hair and the 
still youthful face. Mrs. Neale^s hair became white during 
that time of dreadful trouble, but the two years of continu- 
ous residence in the hills, amid the bracing breezes of the 
Himalayas, have given her fresh health and strength, have 
smoothed away the furrows made by tears rather than years, 
have brought back to her sweet face much of the bloom of 
that girlhood in which she so much resembled her youngest 
daughter. On her face is a look of exceeding happiness, 
great content. 


THE TOUCnSTOKE OF PEKIL. 337 

And here, gallantly escorting one of the bride-maids, in 
full uniform, his cocked -hat under his arm, his boots of 
jettiest black, walking with solemn and formal step, comes 
our old friend. Dr. Sawyer. 

In fact, all the surviving members of that ‘‘Hajigunje 
garrison are gathered together here to-day, have come 
together on this day of joy, as they were together in those 
days of sorrow. Here is little Ethel Forde, who has acted 
as one of the bride-maids, and Master Guy Forde, who has 
officiated in the capacity of a page. Here is Mr. Forde^ 
who has also won distinction in the late troublous times. 
Here is his sweet-faced wife. Mrs. Forde says she would 
have traveled a thousand miles to see John Steele married 
to Mary Neale. 

In the local journal, which, with its grand title ‘‘ The 
Himalayas and its tiny size, reminds one of the result of 
the mountain's being in labor, appeared the following an- 
nouncement: 

“ StEELE-NeALE — DACEES-JS rEALE. 

At St. John^’s-in- the- Wilderness, Landour, on the 10th 
October, by the Rev. Drawbridge Smythe, M.A., Brevet 
Lieutenant-colonel John Steele, V.C., C.B., commanding 
Steele^s Rifles to Mary Felicia, eldest daughter of the late 
John Neale, Esq., of Hajigunje Factory. Also, at the 
same time and place. Captain Percy Dacres, officiating sec- 
ond-in-command, Skelton^’s Horse, to Ohloe, youngest 
daughter of the late John Neale, Esq., of Hajigunje Fac- 
tory. 

Surely now the story is told. All stories end ^t the 
church-door, and this one has got beyond it, to the mar- 
riage announcement. But these marriages took place six- 
and- twenty years ago. If those of whom I have written are 
to the reader not real men and women, but only phantoms, 
that is the fault of my pen, blunted by long official use. 
To me they are old friends and acquaintances. The subse- 
quent story of their lives rises up before me. I can not but 
bring the record up to date. 

As a reward for his service at Hajigunje, and elsewhere 
subsequently, the government bestowed on the Subahdar- 
Major Bhola Misr the title of bahadur, and the confiscated 
estate of a rebel chieftain in Oudh. This estate included 


338 


THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


Bliola Misr^s little native village, in which he had begun 
life as a plow-boy, and of which he thus became the land- 
lord. In it he built himself a little garhi, or fort, very 
like the one near Hajigunje Factory, in whose defense he 
had assisted; and within its walls he passes the remainder 
of his life in peace and honor. It came to be noticed that 
the men of the new military police seemed to like being 
stationed near this garhi, and went away much richer than 
they came. Popular rumor, very much below its breath, 
connected this circumstance with the fact that the house 
of Bhola Misr was sometimes visited by an ill-favored 
man, who remained in-doors a great deal, and who, it was 
said, bore a very great resemblance to that son of the old 
man’s who had shot the colonel of their regiment in “ the 
year of the great disturbance.” 

Old Dya Earn of Hurchundpore lost his life in fighting 
against the English, as his father had done before him, 
and his heavy-shouldered son fell by his side. And with 
them ended the ancient house of Horchundpore. 

Amir iVb, Mrs. Dyke’s magnificent major-domo, came 
to be hanged. 

Hajigunje Factory passed into other hands, but the new 
proprietor kept young Graham on in his employment, and 
he and his mother lived on, contented and happy, in the 
little house with which Mr. Neale had provided them at 
the solicitation of his daughter and Captain Steele. A deep 
mystery hung over the fate of the two girls, the sisters and 
daughters, Mary Neale’s protegees. It was thought that 
one of them was heard of at Mecca a long time after. Mrs. 
Graham died two years ago, and received what her parents 
had never anticipated for her — Christian burial. 

Mr. Forde rose to be in “ The Board,” and now lives at 
Eastbourne. Mrs. Forde retains her good looks, her sweet, 
matron-modest look. Guy is married. Ethel is married. 
Dr. Sawyer is now a deputy-inspector-general of hospitals. 
As so often happens, the fate he most dreaded has over- 
taken him. He has married a wife who can not live in 
India— only at Brighton. And in these daj^s when the 
rupee is so terribly low, he finds the remittances home ” 
a more dreadful thing to face than they would have been 
in the days when he expressed his fears on the subject to 
Mary Neale. 

After the marriage of her two daughters Mrs. Nea/e re- 


.THE TOUCHSTONE OF PERIL. 


339 


turned to England and entered upon a new course of hopes 
and fears in connection with the’ education and launching 
in life of her son Tom. But Tom Neale did very well. 
He took a good degree at Oxford, went into the Church, 
and after a not very long period of waiting obtained a very 
good living. Mrs. Nealfe passed the last ten years of her 
life at the rectory, in great peace and happiness, though 
always much troubled by the infantile ailments of her^ 
grandsons and granddaughters, whom she did her best to 
spoil. She now sleeps in a corner of the pretty church- 
yard that lies at the point where the descending waters of 
the beautiful Cornish river meet the inrush of the tidal 
wave and widen out into a noble estuary. And when her 
younger grandchildren come to place flowers upon her 
grave they ar^ accompanied by a lady> of a grave and noble 
beauty, whom they call aunt, and who is the eldest daugh- 
ter of her who lies below. Eor after Colonel Steele was 
killed, at the head of his regiment, in that aflair upon the 
Punjab frontier, Mrs; Steele returned to England with her 
only child, a boy, and took up her abode near her brother 
and mother. Now that her son has left her — he is in the 
Engineers — she leads a somewhat solitary life. Her chief 
pleasure lies in the enjoyment of the beautiful scenery 
round her. Now she follows the brawling river up through 
its beautiful valleys. Now she follows it downward, along 
its four broad and beautiful reaches, to the sea. Or she 
will go down straight to the rock-bound coast, and sit 
there for hours alone, watching the ships go to and fro, 
looking dreamily over the wide distances of the now 
sparkling and now overcast sea; gazing up at the sky as 
she had gazed up at it from the secluded corner of the gar- 
den of the old mausoleum, near Hajigunje, so many years 
ago. 

We saw Lady Dacres the other day in the shop of Mr. 
Whiteley, the universal provider. She was accompanied 
by a fine, manly young fellow, her son, and by a very 
pretty girl, her daughter. She has grown stout. She was 
giving orders for the dispatch of a large quantity of glass 
and plate and china to Allahabad, where her husband. Sir 
Percy Dacres, now commands. She goes out to join him 
in October. 

Inexcusable neglect! We had almost forgotten Mrs. 
Dyke. We should have mentioned her first, not last. She 


340 THE TOirCHSTOHE OF PERIL. 

always came first at Hajigunje. She now lives in Belgrave 
Square: Mrs. Dyke no longer, but Lady Scliunck. 

Baron Schunk— the title is a foreign one — who was born 
in Lithuania, and, it is said, of Hebrew parentage, is the 
great financier, who, it will be remembered, made five 
hundred thousand pounds in one single operation the other 
day. The magnificence of Lady Schunck^s diamonds is 
well known. During the London season you will see fre- 
■quent mention in the. society journals of the ‘‘most strik- 
ing, or “most superb dress, in which Lady Schunck 
appeared at this or that entertainment — all the resources of 
their ornate phraseology are called forth in describing her 
own great annual entertainment. At this the flowers alone 
cost more than the whole yearns income of her best-paid In- 
dian husband. So you see she has been a most fortunate 
woman all her life. 

And so, at last, the story is told. 


ADVERTISEMENTS. 



THE BEST 

Wasliii Conipoift 

EVER INVENTED. 

No Lady, Married or Sin- 
gle, Bich or Poor, House- 
keeping or Boarding, will 
be without it after testing 
its utility. 

Sold by all first-class 
Grocers, but beware of 
worthless imitations. 


GLUTEN SUPPOSITORIES 

CURE COJ^SXIJPATIO.ir AI\I> PIEES. 

SO Cents by Mail. Circulars Free. 

HEALTH FOOD CO., 

4tlt A'veiiue and lOtli St., i\. It. 


CANDY 

CANDY 


Send $1, $2, $3 or $5 for a sample retail by 
Express, ©f 

THE BEST CANDIES IN AMERICA, 

put up in elegant boxes, and strictly pure. Suit- 
able for presents. Express charges light. Refer 
to all Chicago. Try it once. 

If preferred, fine candy at 2i5c.. 40e.- and 60c. 
per pound; the best in the Ian* for the 
money. Address 

C. F. OU.liXlIFR, 

Confectioner. 

CHICAGO, 


WHAT IS SAPOLIO? 

equal for all cleaning purposes except the laundry, 
what will Sapolio do? Wl 


It is a solid, 
handsome cake 
of scouring soap, 
w hi c h has no 
To use it is to value it. 

7hy, it will clean paint, make oil-cloths bright, and 
give the floors,' tables and shelves a new appearance. 

It will take the grease off the dishes and off the pots and pans. 

You can scour the knives and forks with it, and make the tin tiling shine 
brightly. The wash-i)asin, the bath-tub, even the greasy kitchen smk, will 
be as clean as a new pin if you use SAPOUIO. One cake vriT all 

w© say. Be a clever little housekeeper and try it. 

BEWARE OF IMITATIONS. 


NEW TABERNACLE SERMONS 


BY 

f[E?. T. Dewitt TALMjlGE, D.D. 

Handsomely Bound in ClotlL 12mo. Price $1.00. 

The latest of Dr. Talmagb*s sermons have not yet been p» 
Bented in book form. They have appeared weekly in The NbBI 
York FiREsiDE Companion, and are now 

PubMed for tbe First Time in Book Form, 

THE PRICE OP WHICH IS WITHIN THE REACH OP ALL. 

Eacli Toliie wiU Goitaii Tit? Sanoaa; 

PRINTED IN 

CLEAR, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE, 

A3TD WIIX MASS 

4N ELEGANT AND ACCEPTABLE HOLIDAY GIF^ 
The above will be sent postpaid on receipt of price, $1.(NK 
Address 

GEOEQE MUNEO, Publisher. 


17 to 27 Vandewater Street. Wew 


\ 

MUyiJO.VS rr CLie ATIONS. 

The Seaside Library-Pocket Edition. 


Persons who wish to purchase the following works in complete and un- 
abridged form are cautioned to order and see that they get The Seaside 
Library, Pocket Edition, as works published in other Libraries ai*e fre- 
qvently abridged and incomplete. Every number of The Seaside Library 
is unchanged and unabridged. 

Newsdealers wishing Catalogues of The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
bearing their imprint, will be supplied on sending their names, addresses, 
and number required. 

The works in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, are printed from 
larger type and on better paper than any other series published. 

The following works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to 
any address, postage free, on receipt of price, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing Hoiiset 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vande water Street, N. Y. 

[Whe7i ordering by mail please order by numbers i\ 




- Works by tlie author of Addie’s 
Husband.” 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or. Through 


Clouds to Sunshine 10 

504 3Iy Poor Wife 10 

Works by the author of “A Fatal 
Dower.” 

246 A Fatal Dower. 10 

372 Phyllis’ Probation 10 

461 His Wedded Wife 20 

Works by the author of “ A Great 
Mistake.” 

244 A Great Mistake 20 

6^ Cherry. .. 10 


Woman’s liOve-Story.” 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

677 Griselda 2o 

Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 

5 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

17 The Wooing O't ' 20 

62 The Executor 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate 10 

,229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

236 Which Shall it Be? 20 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid... 10 

490 A Second Life 20 

564 At Bay 10 

794 Beaton’s Bargain 20 

797 Look Before You Leap 20 

806 The Freres. 1st half 20 

305 The Freres. 2d half 20 


Alison’s Works. 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So S'ar 1” . . . 10 

278 For Life and Love 10 

481 The House That Jack Built.... 10 


F. Anstey’s Works. 

59 Vice Versa 20 

225 The Giant’s Robe 20 

503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 

Romance 10 

R. M. Ballantyne’s Works. 

89 The Red Eric 10 

95 The Fire Brigade 10 

96 Erling the Bold 10 

772 Gascoyme, the Sandal-Wood 

Trader 20 

Anne Beale’s Works. 

188 Idonea 20 

199 The Fisher Village 10 

Basil’s Works, 

344 “ The Wearing of the Green ” . . 20 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest 20 

585 A Drawn Game 20 

M. Betham-Ed wards’s Works. 

273 Love and Mirage ; or. The Wait- 
ing on an Island 10 

579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

Stories 10 

594 Doctor Jacob 20 

Walter Besaiit’s Works. 

97 All in a Garden Fair 20 

137 Uncle Jack 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune 10 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Besant and Rice 10 

2.S0 Dorothy Forster 20 

324 In Luck at Last 10 

.541 Uncle Jack 10 

651 *' Self or Bearer ” . . 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


William Black’s Works. 

1 Yolande 20 

18 Shandon Bells 20 

SI Sunrise : A Story of These 

Times 20 

23 A Princess of Thule 20 

39 In Silk Attire 20 

44 Macleod of Dare 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance 10 

78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 20 

126 Elilmeny 20 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 20 
265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Women of Inverness. 10 
827 White Heather 20 


R. D. Blackmore’s Works. 

67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. 2d half 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 20 

615 Mary Anerloy; 20 

625 Erema; or, IMy Father’s Sin... 20 

629 Cripps, the Carrier 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. First half... 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. Second half. 20 

631 Christowell. A Dartmoor Tale 20 

632 Clara Vaughan 20 

633 The Maid of Sker. First half. . 20 
633 The Maid of Sker. Second half 20 

636 Alice Lorraine. First half 20 

636 Alice Lon-aine. Second half.. 20 


Miss M. E. Braddon’s Works. 

85 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

56 Phantom Fortune 20 

74 Aurora Floyd 20 

110 Under the Red Flag 10 

15.3 The Golden Calf 20 

204 Vixen 20 

211 The Octoroon 10 

234 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery. . 20 

263 An Ishmaelite 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss Braddon 20 

434 Wy Hard’s Weird 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Parti 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part II 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

489 Rupert Godwin 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 


496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

497 The Lady’s Mile 20 

498 Onh’^ a Clod 20 

499 The” Cloven Foot 20 

511 A Strange World 20 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

529 Tlie Doctor’s Wife 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel 10 

548 The Fatal Marriage, and The 

Shadow in the Corner 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 

er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey 10 

552 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey ,.... 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey ”) 20 

557 To the Bitter Eud 20 

559 Taken at the Flood 20 

560 Asphodel 20 

561 Just as I am; or, A Living Lie 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

570 John Marchmont's Legacy. ... 20 
618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 


Works by Charlotte M. Braeme, 
Antlior of “Bora Thorne.” 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 10 

51 Dora Thorne 20 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover 20 

73 Redeemed b}' Love 20 

76 Wife in Name Only 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 10 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms . . 10 

190 Romance of A Black Veil 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? 10 

2.37 Repented at Leisure 20 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter ” . . 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False 10 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime 10 

287 At War With Herself 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight 10 

291 Love’s Warfare lO 

292 A Golden Heart 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

294 Hilda 10 

295 A Woman’s War 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 
ter than Death 10 




TEE SEASIDE LIDBABT.— Pocket Edition. 


Works by Charlotte M. Braeme— 
Coutiiiiied. 


304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

105 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 
doline’s Dream 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like ro Other 

^ Love .... 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate. 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation 20 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 20 

466 Between Two Laves 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 20 

469 Lady Damer’s Secret 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

471 Thrown on the World 20 

476 Between Two Sins 10 

516 Put Asunder ; or. Lady Castle- 

maine’s Divorce 20 

576 Her Martyrdom 20 

626 A Fair Mystery 20 

741 The Heiress of. Hilldrop; or. 
The Romance of a Young 

Girl; 20 

745 For Another’s Sin; or, A Strug- 
gle for Love 20 

792 Set in Diamonds 20 


Charlotte Broute’s Works. 


15 Jane Eyre 20 

57 Shirley 20 


Khoda Broughton’s Works. 

86 Belinda 20 

101 Second Thoughts 20 

327 Nancy 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains 10 

758 ‘‘Good-bye, Sweetheart!” 20 

765 Not Wisely, But Too Well 20 

767 Joan 20 

768 Red as a Rose is She 20 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower 20 


Robert Buchanan’s Works. 

145 ” Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man 20 

154 Annan Water 20 

181 The New Abelard 10 

398 Matt; A Tale of a Caravan. ... 10 

646 The Master of the Mine 20 


Hall Caine’s Works. 

445 The Shadow of a Crime 20 

520 She’s All the World to Me 10 

Rosa Nouchette Carey’s Works. 

215 Not Like Other Girls 20 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

551 Barl)ara Heathcote’s Trial ^ 

608 B'or Lilias ^ 

Lewis Carroll’s Works. 

462 Alice’s ‘Adventures in Wonder- 
lapd. Illustrated by John 

Tenniel 90 

789 Through the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 
Illustrated by John Tenniel. . 20 


Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron’s Works. 


595 A North Country Maid 20 

796 In a Grass Country 20 

Wilkie Collins’s Works. 

52 The New Magdalen 10 

102 The Moonstone 20 

167 Heart and Science 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and Other 

Stories 10 

233 ” I Say No;” or. The Love-Let- 
ter Answered 20 

508 The Girl at the Gate. 10 

591 The Queen of Hearts 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet 10 

62;3 My Lady’s Money 10 

701 The Woman in AVliite. 1st half 20 

701 The Woman in White. 2d half 20 

702 Man and Wife. 1st half 20 

702 Man and Wife. 2d half 20 

764 The Evil Genius 20 

Ilngb Conway’s Works. 

240 Called Back 10 

251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 
Other Tales 10 

301 Dark Days 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest 10 

502 Carriston’s Gift 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories 10 

543 A r amily Affair 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

Stories 10 

711 A Cardinal Sin 9# 

804 Living or Dead 20 


Captain Fred Burnaby’s Works. 


375 A Ride to Khiva. 20 

884 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor. 20 

E. Fairfax Byrrue’s Works, 

521 Entangled 20 

638 A Fair' Country Maid 20 


J. Feniinore Cooper’s Works, 


60 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

63 The Spy 20 

309 The Pathfinder 20 

310 The Prairie 20 

318 The Pioneers; or. The Sources 

of the Susquehanna 20 

349 The Two Admirals 20 

359 The Water-Witch 20 

361 The Red Rover 20 


TEE BEA&IDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 




J, Feniinore Cooper’s Works- 
Continued. 


873 Wing and Wing 20 

878 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase 20 

379 Home as Found, (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound”) 20 

380 Wyandotte; or, The Hutted 

Knoll 20 

385 The Headsman; or, The Ab- 

baye des Vignerons 20 

894 The Bravo • 20 

897 Lionel Lincoln; or, The Leag- 
uer of Boston 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. . . 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour 20 

416 Jack Tier; or. The Florida Reef 20 

419 TheChainbearer; or,The Little- 

page Manuscripts 20 

420 Satanstoe; or) The Littlepage 

Manuscripts... 20 

421 The Redskins; or, ludian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts 20 

422 Precaution 20 

423 The Sea Lions; or. The Lost 

Sealers 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay 20 

425 The Oak-Openings ; or. The Bee- 

Hunter 20 ; 

431 The Monikins 20 


91 Barnaby Rudge. 2d half 

94 Little Dorrit, First half 

94 Little Dorrit. Second half , . . 
106 Bleak House. First half. . ... 

106 Bleak House. Second half. . . . 

107 Dombey and Son. 1st half .... 

107 Dornbey and Son, 2d half 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold 

131 Our Mutual Friend, (Isthalf). 

131 Our Mutual Friend. (2d half).. 

132 Master Humphi-ey’s Clock 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. . . 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 

169 The Haunted Man 

437 Life and Adventurers of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. First half 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. Second half 

439 '^reat Expectations 

440 Mrs. Lin iper’s Lodgings 

447 American Notes 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

Mudfog Papers, &c 

454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood.. 
456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People 

676 A Child’s History of England. . 

Sarah Oauduey’s Works. 

338 The Family Difflculty 

679 Where Two Ways Meet 


Georgiana M* Craik’s Worke. 


450 Godfrey Helstone 20 

606 Ml’S. Hollyer 20 

B. M. Croker’s Works* 

207 Pretty Miss Neville 20 

260 Proper Pride 10 

412 Some One Else 20’ 

May Cromnieliu’s Works. 

452 In the West Countne 20 

619 Joy; or, The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford.. 20 

647 Goblin Gold 10 

Alphonse Daudet’s Works. 

534 Jack 20 

574 The Nabob: A Story of Parisian 
Life and Manners 20 

Charles Dickens’s Works. 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. 1 20 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. II.... 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. 1 20 

2^1 Pickwick Papers. Vol. H. . ... 20 
37 Nicholas Nickleby. First half. ^ 
37 Nicholas Nickleby, Second half 20 

41 Oliver Twist 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities ^ 

84 Hard Times 10 

9J Barnaby Rudge. 1st half 20 


F. Du Loisgohey’s Works. 

82 Sealed Lips 

104 The Coral Pin. 1^ half 

104 The Coral Pin. 2d half 

264 Pi6dbuche, a French Detective. 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

First half 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

Second half 

453 The Lottery Ticket 

475 The Prima Donna’s Husband.. 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or. The 

Steel Gauntlets 

523 The Consequences of a Duel. A 

Parisian Romance 

648 The Angel of the Bells 

697 The Pretty Jailer, 1st half..,. 

697 The Pretty Jailer. 2d half 

699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. 1st 

half 

699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. 2d 

half 

78’i The Closed Door. 1st half 

782 The Closed Door. 2d half 

“The Duchess’s” Works. 

2 Molly Bawn 

6 Portia 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian 

16 Phyllis 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey 

29 Beauty’s Daughters 

30 Faith andUnfaith 

/ 


B BBBB B BBB B ^BBB SS BB BB B^BB B SS BSBB^ BBBBBBB 


TEE SEASIDE LlBRART.-PoM Edition, 


A, 


The Ducfeess’s” WorKs— Con- 
tinued. 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 


Eric Bering 10 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. .. 10 

123 Sweet is True Love 10 

129 Rossmoyne 10 

^ 184 The Witching Hour, and Other 

Stories 10 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 

Other Stories 10 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites 10 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and Other 

Stories 10 

284 Boris 10 

312 A Week in Killarney; or, Her 

Week’s Amusement 10 

842 The Baby. — OneNewYear’sEve 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion 10 

404 In Burance Vile, and Other 

Stories 10 

486 Bick’s Sweetheart 20 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 
bara 10 

517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

Stories 10 

641 “As It Fell Upon a Bay.” 10 

73-1 Lady Branksmere 20 

771 A Mental Struggle.. 20 

785 The Haunted Chamber 10 

Alexander Dumas’s Works. 

55 The Three Guardsmen 20 

75 Twenty Years After 20 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A 
Sequel to “ The Count of 

Monte-Cristo ” 10 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part 1 20 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II 20 

717 Beau Tancrede; or. The Mar- 
riage Verdict 20 

Maria Edgeworth’s Works. 

708 Ormond 20 

7^ The Absentee. An Irish Story. 20 

George Eliot’s Works. 

3 The Mill on the Floss 20 

31 Middlemarch. 1st half 20 

31 Middlemarch. 2d half 20 

34 Baniel Beronda. Ist half 20 

34 Daniel Beronda. 2d half 20 

36 Adam Bede 20 

42 Romola 20 

693 Felix HOlt, the Radical... 20 

707 Silas Maruer: The Weaver of 

Raveloe 10 

f28 Janet’s Repentance 10 

762 Impressions of Theophrastus 
Such 10 


B. It, Farjeon’s Works. 


G. Mauville Fenu’s Works. 

193 The Rosery Folk 10 

558 Poverty Corner 20 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford 20 

609 The Bark House 10 

Octave Fenillet’s Works. 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man 10 

386 Led Astray; or, “La Petito 
Comtesse” 10 


Mrs. Forrester’s Works. 

80 June 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
ciety 10 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 

Other Tales. 10 

715 I Have Lived and Loved 20 

721 Dolores 20 

724 My Lord and My Lady 20 

726 My Hero 20 

727 Fair Women 20 

729 Mignon 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades 20 

734 Viva ^ 

736 Roj' and Viola 20 

740 Rhona 20 

744 Diana Carew; or, For a Wom- 
an’s Sake 20 


Jessie Fothergill’s Works. 

314 Peril...., 20 

572 Healey 20 

B. E. Francilloii’s Works. 

135 A Great Heiress: A Fortune 

in Seven Checks 10 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables 16 

360 Ropes of Sand 20 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 
Francillon and Wm. Senior.. 10 

Emile Gaboriau’s Works. 

7 File No. 113 20 

12 Other People’s Money 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol. II 20 

33 The Clique of Gold 10 

38 The Widow Lerouge 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival 20 

144 Promises of Marriage..... 10 


Charles Gibbon’s Works. 

64 A Maiden Fair 10 

317 By Mead and Stream 20 


179 Little Make-Believe 

673 Love’s Harvest 

607 Self-Doomed 

J616 The Sacred Nugget, 
657 Christmas Angel... 


10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

( 5 ^ 


James Grant’s Works. 

566 The Ro 5 'al Highlanders : or, 

The Black Watch in Egypt... 20 
781 The Secret Dispatch 10 


TEE SEASIDE LIBEART— Pocket Edition. 


Miss Grant’s Works. 

^2 The Sun-Maid 20 

655 Oai a Koma 20 

Arthur Griffiths’s Works. 

614 No. 99 10 

680 Fast and Loose 20 

H. Rider Haggard’s Worksw 

432 The Witch’s Head 20 

753 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

Thomas Hardy’s Works. 

i39 The Romantic Adventures of 

a Milkmaid 10 

530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 20 

690 Far From the Madding CroAvd. 20 
791 The Mayor of Casterbridge. ... 20 

John B. Harwood’s Works. 

143 One False, Both Fair 20 

858 Within the Clasp 20 

Mary Cecil Hay’s Works. 

65 Back to the Old Home 10 

■ Old Myddelton’s Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

224 The Arundel Motto 20 

281 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished ... 20 

Mrs. Cashel-Hoey’s Works. 

313 The Lover’s Creed 20 

802 A Stern Chase. 20 

Tighe Hopkins’s Works. 

S09 Nell Haffenden... 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty 20 

Works by the Author of “Judith 
Wynne.” 

332 Judith Wynne 20 

606 Lady Lovelace 20 

William H, G. Kingston’s Works. 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 20 

133 Peter the Whaler .’ 10 

761 Will Weatherhelm 20 

763 The Midshipman, Marmaduke 
Merry 20 

r'ljnrlf's Lever’s Works. 

191 Harry Lorrequer 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. First half 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. Second half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” First 

half 20 

843 Tom Burke of ” Ours.” Sec- 
ond half........ 20 


Mary Linskill’s Works. 

473 A Lost Son 2® 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea. 2<l 

Samuel Lover’s Works. 

663 Handy Andy 20 

664 Rory O’More 20 

Sir E. Bulwer Lyttou’s Works. 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii 20 • 

83 A Strange Story 20 

90 Ernest Maltravers 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. First 

half 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. Sec- 
ond half 20 

162 Eugene Aram 20 

164 Leila; or. The Siege of Grenada 10 
650 Alice ; or, The Mysteries. (A Se- 
quel to “ Ernest Maltravers ”) -20 
720 Paul Clifford 20 

George Macdonald’s Works. 

282 Donal Grant 20 

3^ The Portent 10 

326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women 10 

722 What’s Mine’s Mine 20 

Florence Marryat’s Works. 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories .10 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other 

Stories 10 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses.... 10 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner 20 

449 Peeress and Player ^ 

689 The Heir Presumptive.. ^ 

Captainjilari’yat’s Works. 

88 The Privateersman 20 

272 The Little Savage 10 

Helen B. Mathers’s Works. 

' 13 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 20 

438 Found Out. 10 

535 Murder or Manslaughter? 10 

673 Story of a Sin 20 

713 ” Clierry Ripe ” 20 

795 Sam’s Sweetheart 20 

798 The Fashion of this World 10 

799 My Lady Green Sleeves 20 

Justin McCai'thy’s Works. . 

121 Maid of Athens 20 

602 Camiola ^ 

685 England Under Gladstone. 

1880—1885 20 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 

by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. . lO 
779 Doom 1 An Atlantic Episode. .. 10 


THE SEASIDE L IBB, ARY, — Pocket Edition. 


Mrs, Alex. 3IcVeigh Miller’s 


W oi’ks. 

‘2<57 Laurel Vaue; or, The Girls’ 

Conspiracy 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The ■ 

Miser’s Treasure 20 

269' Lancaster’s Choice. 20 

.316 Sworn to Silence; or, Aline 

Rodney’s Secret 20 

Jean Middlemas’s Works. 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret 20 

539 Silvermead 20 

Alan Muir’ ^ Works. 

172 “ Golden Girls” 20 

146 Tumbledown Farm 10 

Miss Mulock’s Works. 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman 20 

245 Miss Tommy, and In a House- 

Boat 10 

808 King Arthur. Not a Love Story 20 

David Christie Murray’s Works. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea 10 

195 “ The Way of the World ” 20 

.320 A Bit of Human Nature 10 

661 Rainbow Gold 20 

674 First Person Singular 20 

691 Valentine Strange 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 

Deuce 20 

698 A Life's Atonement 20 

737 Aunt Rachel 10 


Works by the author of “Ms 
Ducats and My Daughter.” 

876 The Crime of Christmas Day. 10 
596 My Ducats and My Daughter. .. 20 


W..E. Norris’s WoTks. 

184 Thirlby Hall 20 

277 A Man of His Word 10 

:355 That Terrible Man 10 

500 Adrian Vidal 20 

Laurence Oliphant’s Works. 

47 AltloraPeto 20 

537 Piccadilly 10 

Mrs. Oliphant’s Works. 

45 A Little Pilgrim 10 

177 Salem Chapel. 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife 30 

321 The Prodigals, and Their In- 
heritance 10 


337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 

the Borough of Fendie 

.345 Madam 

351 The House on the Moor 


357 John 20- 

370 Lucy Crofton 10 

371 Margaret Maitland 20 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 

the Scottish Reformation 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside 20 

410 Old Lady Mary 10 

527 The Dav s of My Life 20 

528 At His Gates 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate 20 

569 Ha’-ry Muir 20 

60.5 Agnes. 1st half 20 

603 Agnes. 2d half 20 

604 Innocent. 1st half 20 

604 Innocent. 2d half 20 

605 Ombra 20^ 

645 ( 'liver's Bride 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Por- 
trait 10 

687 A Country Gentleman 20 

703 A House Divided Against Itself 20 
710 The Greatest Heiress in England 20 


“ Ouida’s ” Works* 


4 Under Two Flags 20 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras.. 20 

116 Moths 20 

128 Afternoon and Other Sketches. 10 

226 Friendship 20 

228 Princess Napraxine 20 

238 Pasoarel 20 

239 Signa 20 

433 A Rainy June 10 

6.39 Othmar 20 

671 Don Gesualdo 10 

672 In Maremma. First half 20 

672 In Maremma. Second half 20 

James Payn’s Works. 

48 Tliicker Than Water 20 

186 The Canon’s Ward 20 

343 The Talk of the Town 20 

577 In Peril and Privation 10 

589 The Luck of the Darrells 20 

Miss Jane Porter’s Works, 

660 The Scottish Chiefs. 1st half.. 20 
660 The Scottish Chiefs. 2d half.. 20 
696 Thaddeus of Warsaw 20 


Cecil Power’s Works. 

336 Philistia 20 

611 Kabylon 20 

Mrs. Campbell Praed’s Works. 

428 Zero : A Story of Monte-Carlo . 10 
477 Affinities — 18 


Eleanor C. Price’s Works. 

20 173 The Foreigners 20- 

20 331 Gerald 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. —Docket Edition, 


Cliarics iweadc’s V/orks. 


46 Very Hard Casli 20 

98 A Woman-Hater 20 

206 The Picture, and Jack uf All 

V Trades 10 

210 fleadiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events 10 

213 A Terrible Temptation 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

216 Foul Play 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy... 20 

232 Love and Monej' ; or, A Perilous 

Secret 10 

335 “It is Never Too Late to 
Mend.” A Matter- of-Fact Ro- 
mance 20 

mrs. J. H. Riddell’s Works. 

71 A Struggle for Fame 20 

193 Bema Boyle 20 

“Rita’s” Works, 

252 A Sinless Secret 10 

446 Dame Durden 20 

698 “ Corinna.” A Study. 10 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 


F. W. Robinson’s Works. 

157 Milly’sHero 20 

217 The Man She Cared For 20 

261 A Fair Maid 20 

455 Lazarus in London 20 

690 The Courting of Mary Smith. . . 20 

W. Clark Russell’s Works. 

85 A Sea Queen 20 

109 Little Loo 20 

180 Round the Galley Fire 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. . 10 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

592 A Strange Voyage 20 

682 In the Middle Watch. Sea 

743 Jack’s Courtship. isthalL... 20 
743 Jack’s Courtship. 2d half 20 

Sir Walter Scott’s Works. 

28 Ivanhoe 20 

201 The Monastery 20 

202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 

Monastery ”) 20 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
gend of Montrose 20 

862 The Bride of Lammermoor.. .. 20 

863 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

891 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

892 Peveril of the Peak ^ 

893 The Pirate. ^ 

401 Waverley ^ 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

Valentine’s Day 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Well 20 


463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

Eighteenth Century 20 

507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 
and Other Stories 10 

* William Sime’s Works. 

429 Boulderstone ; or, New Men and 

Old Populations 10 

580 The Red Route 20 

597 Ilaco the Dreamer 10 

649 Cradle and Spade 20 

Hawles' Smart’s Works. 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing • 

Romance ‘ 20 

367 Tie and Trick 20 

550 Struck Down 10 

Frank £. iSmedley’s Works. 

333 Frank Fairlegh; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Private 

Pupil 20 

562 Lewis Arundel ; or, The Rail- 
road of Life 20 

T. W. Speight’s Works. 

150 For Himself Alone 10 

653 A Barren Title 10 

Robert Louis Stevenson’s Works. 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde... 10 

704 Prince Otto 10 

Julian Sturgis’s Works. 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 1# 

694 John Maidment 20 


Eugene Sue’s Works, 


270 The Wandering Jew. Parti... 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II . . ^ 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part I . ^ 
271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 20 

CJeorge Temple’s Works. 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P 10 

642 Britta 10 

William M. Thackeray’s Works. 

27 Vanity Fair 20 

165 The History of Henry Esmond . 20 

464 The Newcomes. Part I ... ^ 

464 The Newcomes. Part II 20 

531 The Prime Minister (1st half)., ^ 
531 The Prime Minister (2d half).. ^ 
670 The Rose and ttie Ring. 'Illus- 
trated 10 

Annie Thomas’s Works. 

141 She Loved Him 1 io 

142 Jenifer 20 

565 No Medium ... 10 




THE SEASIDE LIBHART. —Pocket Edition. 


Autbouy Trollope’s Works. 


32 The Laud Leaguers 20 

93 Anthony Trollope's Autobiog- 
raphy 20 

147 Raciiel Ray 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love, 10 

531 The Prime Minister. 1st halL . 20 
531 The Prime Minister. 2d half. .. 20 

621 The Warden 10 

622 Harry, Heathcote of Gangoil. . . 10 
667 The Golden Lion of Granpere.. 20 

700 Ralpli the Heir. 1st half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. 2d half ^ 

775 The Three Clerks 20 

Margaret Veley’s Works. 

298 Mitchelhurst Place 10 

586 “ For Percival ” 20 

Jules Verne’s Works. 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 20 
868 The Southern Star ; or, the Dia- 
mond Land 20 

39.7 The Archipelago on Fire 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Part I 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf, Illustrated. 

Part II 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf, Illustrated. 

Part HI 10 

659 The Waif of the “ Cynthia ”... 20 
751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. First lialf 20 

751 Great Voyages and Great Navi- 
gators. Second half.. 20 


h, B. Walford’s Works. 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother 10 

2.56 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 20 

^8 Cousins 20 

The History of a Week lO 

F. Warden’s Works. 

192 At the World’s Mercy 10 

248 The House on the Marsh 10 

^6 Deldee; or, The Iron Hand.,.. 20 

482 A Vagrant Wife 20 

556 A Prince of Darkness 20 

William Ware’s Works. 

709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 
myra. 1st half 20 

709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 

mvra. 2d half 20 

760 Aurelian; or, Rome in the Third 

Century 20 


E. Werner’s Works. 

327 Raymond’s Atonement 20 

540 At a High Price 20 


Works by the author of “ What’s 
His Offence ?” 

637 What’s His Offence? 20 

780 Rare Pale Margaret 20 

784 The Two Miss Flemings 20 

G. 'J. Whyte-Melville’s Works. 

409 Roy’s Wife 20 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Bar 20 

Joliu Strange Winter’s Works. 

492 Mignon ; or. Booties’ Baby. Il- 
lustrated 10 

600 Houp-La. Illustrated 10 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 

Black Horse) Dragoons 10 

688 A Man of Honor. Illustrated., 10 
746 Cavalry Life: or. Sketches and 
Stories in Barracks and Out. , 20 


Mrs. Henry Wood’s Works. 

8 East Lynne 20 

255 The Mystery 20 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters 10 

508 The Unholy Wish 10 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales 10 

514 The Mystery of Jessy Page, and 

Other Tales 10 

610 The Story of Dorothy Grape, 
and Other Tales 10 


Charlotte M. Yonge’s Works. 

247 The Armourer's Prentices 10 

275 The Three Brides 10 

535 Henrietta’s Wish; or, Domi-. 

neeriug. ! 10 

563 The Two Sides of the Shield 20 

640 Nuttie’s Father 20 

665 The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. . 20 

666 My Young Alcides: A Faded 

Photograph 20 

739 The Caged Lion 20 

742 Love and Life 20 

783 Chantry Louse 20 

790 The Chapl'^t of Pearls; or. The 
White and Black Ribaumont, 

First half 20 

790 The Chaplet of Pearls; or. The 
White and Itlack Ribaumont. 

Second half. 20 

800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a ^>pinster. 

First half 20 

800 Hopes and Fears; or. Scenes 
from the Life of a Spinster. 
Second half 20 


Miscellaneous. 

63 Tke Story of Ida. Francesca. . 10 
61 Charlotte Temple. Mrs. Row- 

son 10 

99 Barbara's History, Amelia B. 
Edwards 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


Miscellaneous— Continued. 

1G3 Rose Fleming. Dora Russell.. 10 
105 A Noble Wife. John Saunders 20 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

J. H. Shorthouse 10 

112 The Waters of Marah. John 

Hill.. 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. M. G. 

Wightwick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

Eiloart 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

120 Tom Browu’s School Days at 
Rugby. Thomas Hughes — 20 
122 lone Stewart. Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

127 Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy. ... 20 
149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blath- 

erwuck 10 

156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

158 The Starling. Norman Mac- 

leod, D.D 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

ler 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the' Play of that title by 

Lord Ly tton 10 

163 Winifred Power. Joyce Dar- 
rell 20 

170 A Great Treason. Mary Hop- 

pus 30 

174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 20 

176 An April Daj\ Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson iQ 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

Queen Victoria 10 

182 The Millionaire. . 20 

185 Dita. Lady Margaret Majendie 10 
187 The Midnight Sun. Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

203 John Bull and His Island. Max 
O’Rell 10 

218 Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James.. 20 

219 Lady Clare : or, The Master of 

the Forges. Georges Obnet 10 
242 The Two Orphans. D’Ennery. 10 
253 The Amazon. Carl Vosmaer. . 10 
■.257 Beyond Recall. Adeline Ser- 
geant 10 

266 The Water-Babies. Rev. Chas. 

Kingsley 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 10 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
an’s Love. Mrs. Sumner Haj'- 

den 20 

385 The Gambler’s Wife 20 

389 Jo]ui Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. A “ Brutal Sax- 
on ” 10 


311 Two Years Before the Mast. R. 

H. Dana, Jr 20 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

329 The Polish Jew. (Translated 

from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) Erckmann-Chat- 
rian 10 

330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. Margaret Lee 20 

334 A Marriage of Convenience. 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch 20 

340 Under Which King? Compton 

Reade 20 

341 Madolin Rivers; or. The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

Laura Jean Libbey ". . 20 

347 As Avon Flo'W's. Hemy Scott 

Vince 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. George 
Meredith 10 

352 At Any Cost Edward Garrett. 10 

354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 

of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. John Brougham 20 

355 The Princess Dagomar of Po- 

land. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 

356 A Good Hater. Frederick Boyle 20 

365 George Ctiristy ; or. The Fort- 

unes of a Minstrel. Tony 
Pastor 20 

366 The Mysterious Hunter; or. 

The Man of Death. Capt. L. 

C. Carleton 29 

369 Miss Bretherton. Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

374 The Dead Man’s Secret. Dr. 

Jupiter Paeon 20 

881 The Red Cardinal. Frances 
Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters. Elsa D’Esterre- 

Keeling 10 

383 Introduced to Society. Hamil- 

ton Aid 6 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. Char- 
lotte French 20 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. Bertha 

Thomas 10 

399 Miss Brown. Vernon Lee 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. Samuel 

Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood. . . 20 
426 Venus’s Doves. Ida Ashworth 

Taylor 20 

430 A Bitter Reckoning. Author 

of “By Crooked Paths ” 10 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelbei’g 

Castle. George Taylor 20 

436 Stella. Fanny Lewald 20 

441 A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 

442 Ranthorpe. George ^enrj’- 

Lewes 20 

443 The Bachelor of the Albany... 10 
457 The Russians at the Gates of 

Herat. CJharles Marvin ...... IQ 

101 


THE SEASIDE LIBBABY.— Pocket Edition. 


458 A Week of Passion; or, The 


Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. Edward 

Jenkins 20 

468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
of a Sewing-Giri. Charlotte 

M. Stanley 10 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

George Ebers.... 20 

479 Louisa. Katharine S. Macquoid 20 
483 Betwixt My Love and Me. By 
author of “ A Golden Bar ”. . . 10 
485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

491 Society in London. A Foreign 

Resident 10 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. Lucas 

501 Mr. Butler’s XVaid. 'F* Mabel 

Robinson 20 

504 Curly; An Actor’s Story. John 

Coleman 10 

605 The Society of London. Count 

Paul Vasili 10 

510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lover 

andLoid” * 10 

612 The Waters of Herfcules 20 

518 The Hidden Sin 20 

619 James Gordon's Wife 20 

626 Madame De Presnel. E. Fran- 
ces Po.vn ter 20 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 
6‘13 Hazel Kirke. Marie Walsh. . . 20 
636 Dissolving Views. Mrs. Andrew 

Lang 10 

645 Vida’s Story. By the author of 

“Guilty Without Crime”.... 10 

646 Mrs. Keith’s Crime. A Novel.. 10 

571 Paul Crew’s Story. Alice Co- 
rny ns Carr 10 

575 The Finger of Fate. Captain 

Mayne Reid 20 

681 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

Sposi.) Allessandro Manzoni 20 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. Mrs. 

J. H. Needed 20 

583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith. . 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. George 

Temple 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “ Dr. Edith Romney ” 20 

624 Primus in Indis. M. J. Colqu- 

houn 10 

628 Wedded Hands. By the author 

of “ My Lady’s Folly ” 20 

634 The Unforeseen. Alice O’Han- 
lon 20 

641 The Rabbi’s Spell. Stuart C. 

Cumberland 10 

o43 The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey 
Crayon, Gent. Washington 

Irving 20 

644 A Girton Girl. Mrs. Annie Ed- 
wards 20 

652 The Lady with the Rubies. E. 

Marlitt 20 

654 “ Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

Mrs. Molesworth 10 


662 The Mystery of Allan Grale. 
Isabella Fy vie Mayo 26 

668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

669 The Philosophy of Whist. 

William Pole 20 

675 Mrs. Dymond. Miss Thackeray 20 
681 A Singer’s Story. May Laffan. 10 

683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 

forth. Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe. 20 

684 Last Days at Apswich 10 

692 The Mikado, and Other Comic 

Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 
Sullivan 20 

705 The Woman I Loved, and the 

Woman Who Loved Me. Isa 
Blagden 10 

706 A Crimson Stain. Annie Brad 

shaw 10 

712 For Maimie’s Sake. Grant 
Allen 20 

718 Unfairly Won. Mrs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. 

Lord Byron 10 

723 Mauleverer’s Millions. T. We- 

myss Reid 20 

725 My Ten Years’ InTprisonment. 

Silvio Pellico 10 

730 The Autobiography of Benja- 

miiv Franklin 10 

731 The Bayou Bride. Mrs. Mary E. 

Biyan 20 

735 Until the Day Breaks. Emily 

Spender 20 

738 In the Golden Days. Edna 
Lyall 20 

748 Hurrish: A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. 

Mabel Collins. 2§ 

750 An Old Story of My Farming 

Days. Fritz Reuter. 1st half 20 
750 An Old Story of My Farming 


Days. Fritz Reuter. 2d half 20 
752 Jackanapes, and Other Stories. 
Juliana Horatia Ewing . 10 

754 How to be Happy Though Mar- 

ried. By a Graduate in the 
University of Matrimony 20 

755 Margery Daw 26 

756 The Strange Adv entures of Cap- 

tain Dangerous. A Narrative 
in Plain English. Attempted 
by George Augustus Sal a 20 

757 Love’s Martyr. Laurence Alma 

Tadema 10 

759 In Shallow Waters. Annie Ar- 

mitt 20 

766 No. XIII; or, The Story of the 
Lost Vestal. Emma Mar- 
shall -.... 1# 

770 The Castle of Otranto, Hor- 
ace Walpole It 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


Miscellaneous— Continued. 

T73 Tlie Mark of Catn, Andrew 

Lang 10 

'i74 The Life and Travels of Mungo 

10 

776 P6re Go riot. Honors be Bal- 

zac 20 

777 The Voyages and Travels of 

of Sir John Maundeville, Kt. . 10 

778 Society’s Verdict. By the au- 

thor of “My Marriage” 20 

786 Ethel Mildmay’s Follies. By au- 

thor of “Petite’s Romance”. 20 

787 Court Royal. S. Baring-Gould 20 


793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of 

Beaconsfield. First half 20 

793 Vivian Grey. By the Rt. Hon. 
Benjamin Disraeli. Earl of 
Beaconsfield. Second half. .. 20 
801 She Stoops to Conquer, and 
The Good-Natured Man. Oli- 
ver Goldsmith 10 

803 Major Frank. A. L. G. Bos- 

boom-Toussaint 20 

807 If Love Be Love. D. Cecil Gibbs 20 

809 Witness My Hand. By author 
of “ Lady Gwendolen’s Tryst ” 10 


Persons who wish to purchase the foregoing works in complete and un- 
abridged form are cautioned t<> order and see that they get The Sbiasidk 
Library, Pocket Edition, as works published in other libraries are fre- 
quently abridged and incomplete. Every number of The Seaside Library 
is unchanged and unabridged. 

Newsdealers wishing catalogues of The Seaside Library, Pocket Edi- 
tion, bearing their imprint, will be supplied on sending their names, 
addresses, and number required. 

The works in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, are printed from 
larger type and on better paper than any other series published. 

The foregoing works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to 
any address, postage free, on receipt of price, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New york. 

\ynien ordering hy mail please order hy numbers.'] 


Now Ready— Beautifully Bound in Cloth— Price 60 Cents. 


A NEW PEOPLE’S EDITION OF THAT MOST DELIGHTFUL OF 
CHILDREN’S STORIES, 



By LEWIS CARROLL., 

Author of “ Through the Looking-Glass.” 


With Forty-two Beautiful Illustrations by John Tenniel. 

The most delicious and taking nonsense for children ever written. A 
book to be read by all mothers to their little ones. It makes ttiem 
dance with delight. Everybody enjoys the fun of this charming writer 
for the nursery. 


THIS NEW PEOPLE’S EDITION, BOUND IN CLOTH, PRICE 50 CENTS, 
IS PRINTED IN LARGE, HANDSOME, READABLE TYPE, WITH 
ALL THE ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE EX* 
PENSIVE ENGLISH EDITION. 

Sent By Illail on Receipt of 50 Cents. 

Address GEORGE MUNRO, Miinro’s Publishing House, 
f*» O. Box X'7 to Vandewater Street, New York, 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.-Pocket Edition 

LATEST ISSUES; 


MO PTHOTT 

669 Pole on Whist 20 

831 Pomegranate Seed. By the au- 

thor of “ The Two Miss Flem- 
ings,” etc 20 

832 Kidnapped. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 20 

8?3 Ticket No. “9672.” By Jules 
Verne. First half 10 

834 A Ballroom Repentance. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

835 Vivian the Beauty. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 20 

836 A Point of Honor. By Mrs An- 

nie Edwards 20 

837 A Vagabond Heroine. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards 10 

838 Ouglit We to Visit Her? By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

839 Leah : A Woman of Fashion. 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 20 

840 One Thing Needful; or, The 

Penalty of Fate. By Miss M. 

E. Brad don 20 

841 Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune? 

By Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

842 A Blue-Stocking. By Mrs An- 

nie Edwards 10 

843 Archie Lovell. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

844 Susan Fielding. By Mrs. Annie 

Edwards 20 

845 Philip Earnscliffe; or, The 

Morals of May Fair. By Mrs. 
Annie Edwards 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 1st half... 20 

846 Steven Lawrence. By Mrs. 

Annie Edwards. 2d half 20 

847 Bad to Beat. By Hawley Smart 10 

848 My Friend Jim. By W.E. Norris 10 

849 A Wicked Girl. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

850 A Playwright’s Daughter. By 

Mrs. Annie Edwards 10 

851 The Cry of Blood. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. First half 20 

851 The Cry of Blood. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. Second half 20 

852 Under Five Lakes ; or. The 

Cruise of the “Destroyer.” 

By M. Quad 20 

853 A True Magdalen. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

854 A Woman’s Error. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme, author of 
“ Dora Thorne. ” 20 


NO. PUICIC. 


855 The Djmamiter. Robert Louis 

Stevenson and Fanny Van de 
Grif c Stevenson 20 

856 New Araljian Nights. By Rob- 

ert Louis Stevenson 20 

857 Kildee; or, The Sphinx of the. 

Red House. Mary E. Bryan. 
First half 20 

857 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 

Red House. Mary E. Bryan. 
Second half '20 

858 Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 20 

859 Ottilie: An Eighteenth Century 

Idyl. By Vernon Lee. The 
Prince of the 100 Soups. Ed- 
ited by Vernon Lee 20 

860 Her Lord and Master. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

861 My Sister the Actress. By Flor- 

ence Marry at 20 

862 Ugly Barrington. By . “ The 

Duchess.” Betty’s Visions. 

By Rhoda Broughton 10 

863 “My Own Child.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

864 “ No Intentions.” By Florence 

Marryat 20 

865 Written in Fire. ..By Florence 

Mariyat 20 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband. By 

Florence Marryat . 20 

867 The Girls of Feversham. By 

Florence Marryat 20 

869 The Poison of Asps. By Flor- 

ence Marryat 10 

870 Out of His Reckoning. By 

Florence Marryat 10 

871 A Bachelor's Blunder. By W. 

E. Norris 20 

874 A House Party. By “Ouida” 10 

875 Lady Valworth’s Diamonds. By 

“ The Duchess ” 20 

876 Mignon’s Secret. John Strange 

Winter 10 

878 Little Tu’penny. ByS. Baring- 

Gould 10 

879 The Touchstone of Peril. By 

R. E. Forrest 20 

880 The Son of His Father. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

881 Mohawks. By Miss M. E. Brad- 

don 20 

883 Once Again. By Mrs. For- 

rester 20 

884 A Voyage to the Cape. By W. 

Clark Russell 20 


The foregoing works, contained in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of price. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. Ad- 
dr0ss 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

WUNRO’S PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y, 


P. O. Box 3751. 


JUST ISSUED, 


JUST ISSUED 


JPLIET COKSOFS 

NEW FAMILY COOK BOOK. 

BY MISS JULIET CORSON, 

Author of “ Meals for the Million,” etc., etc. 
Superintendent op the New York School op Cookery. 


mCE': HANSS0NEL7 BOUND IN CLOTH, $1.00. 

A COMPREHEHSIYE COOK BOOK 

For Family Use in City and Country. 

CONTAINING 

PRACTICAL RECIPES AND FULL AND PLAIN DIREC- 
TIONS FOR COOKING ALL DISHES USED 
IN AMERICAN HOUSEHOLDS. 

The Best and Most Economical Methods of Cooking Meats, Eish, 
Vegetables, Sauces, Salads, Puddings and Pies. 

How to Prepare Relishes and Savory Accessories, Picked-up Dishes^ 
Soups, Seasoning, Stuffing and Stews. 

How to Make Good Bread, Biscuit, Omelets, Jellies, Jams, Pan^ 
cakes, Fritters and Fillets. 


Miss Corson is the best American writer on cooking. All of her recipe? 
have been carefully tested in the New York School of Cookery. If her diree 
tions are carefully followed there will be no failures aud no reason for com 
plaint. Her directions are always plain, very complete, aud easily followed, 

Juliet Corson’s New Family Cook Book ' 

Is sold by all newsdealers. It will be sent, postpaid, on re«3eipt of price; 
handsomely bound in cloth, $1.00. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, 

Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. 0 Box 3751 17 to 27 Vandewater St., N. Y. 


rUB jSEW YOKk p-AbHlOH BAZAh 

BOOK OF THE TOILET 

PRICE 35 CEIITS. 

THIS IS A LITTLE BOOK 

WHICH 

WE CAN RECOMMEND TO EVERY LADY 

FK)R TH» 

I^B£S1:EVATI0N and INCEEASji: OF HEALTH AND BEADTS 

IT CONI’AINS DIRECTIONS FOR ALL THE 

ARTS AND MYSTERIES OF PERSONAL DECORATION, 

AND FOR 

Increasing tie Natural Graces of Form and Expression. 

ALL THE LITTLE AFFECTIONS OF THE 

Bfein, Kair, E3res aaaci Bod.3;^ 

THAT DETRACT FROM APPEARANCE AN*> HAPPINESS 

Are Ifade the Subjects of Precise and EzceDent Eecipes. 

ladies Are Instnicted How to Redace Their WelAM 

Without Injury to Health and Without Producing 
Pallor and Weakness. 

NOTHINa inCESSABY TO 

A COMPLETE TOILET BOOK OF RECIPES 

AND 

VALUABLE ADVICE ADD INPOEHATION 
BAS BEEN OVERLOOKED IN THE COMPILATION OF THIS VOLUME 

For saie by all Newsdealers, or sent to any address on receipt of S6 •ecir 
lipetage prepaid, by the publisher. Address 

OBOBGE MUNRO. Mnnro'e Publishing House, 

1*. O. Btur 8?b3L iSt SJ? Vandewaner etreetr » 


‘Ouida’s” Latest Novel Now Ready in 
Large, Bold, Handsome Type. 


OTHMAR. 

By “ OUIDA.” 

Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, No. 639. 

PRICC: 20 


For saJe by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage prepaid^ 
«n receipt of price, 20 cents. Address 

OEORGE MENBO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P, O. BOX875L 17 to ijy* Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


WW EEADY-BeaTitifally Bouna in Cloth-PEIOE 60 CENTS. 

A NEW PEOPLE’S EDITION 

OF THAT MOST DBUGHTFUL OP CHILDREN’S STORIES, 

Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland. 

By LEWIS CARROLL, 

Author of ** Through the Looking-Glass,** etc. 

With Forty-two Beautiful Illustrations by John Tenniel. 

The most delicious and taking nonsense for children ever written, A 
book to be read by all mothers to their little ones. It makes them dance 
with delight. Everybody enjoys the fun of this charming writer for the 
nursery. 

THIS NEW PEOPLE’S EDITION, BOUND IN CLOTH, PRICE 60 CENTS 
IS PRINTED IN LARGE, HANDSOME, READABLE TYPE 
WITH ALL THE ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS 
OF THE EXPENSIVE ENGLISH EDITION. 

Sent by Nla,il on Receipt of 50 CentSo 


Address GEORGH lUUNRO. Miinro’s Publishing House, 

Oe Bjix 3751* 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York 


MUKRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


The Philosophy of Whist 

ESSAY ON THE SCIENTIFIC AND INTELLECTUAL 
' ASPECTS OF THE MODERN GAME. 

IN TWO PARTS. 

Pab» l— the philosophy of 'VVHIST play. 

Part H.— THE PHILOSOPHY OF WHIST PROBABILITLEa 

By WILLIAM BOLE, 

Mus. Doo. OxoN. 

Fbllow of the Royal Societies of I^oxdon and Edinburgh; 

One op the Examiners in the University op London; 

Knight op the Japanese Imperial Order op the Rising Sun. 

Complete in Seaside Library (Pocket Edition), No. 669, 
PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 
PRICE 20 CENTTS. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage prepaid, f'W 
receipt of the price, 20 cents. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York 


Munro’s Dialopes and Speakers. 


PRICE 10 CENTS EACH. 


These books embrace a series of Dialogues and Speeches, all new and 
original, and are just what is needed to give spice and merriment to Social 
Parties, Home Entertainments. Debating Societies, School Recitations, Ama 
teur Theatricals, etc. They^ contain Irish, German, Negro, Yankee, and, in 
fact, all kinds of Dialogues and Speeches. The following are the titles of the 
books : 

No. 1. The Funny Fellow’s Dinlognes. 

No. ii. The Clemence nnd Donkey Dialogues. 

No. 3. Mrs. SiiiiTlrs Bonrdors* Dialogues. 

No. 4. Schoolboys* Comic Dialogues. 


No. 1. Vot I Know ’Bout Gruel Societies Speaker, 

No. 2. The John B. Go-olTCoinic Speaker. 

No. 3. My Boy Vilhelm’s Speaker. 


The above titles express, in a slight degree, the contents of the booki, 
which are conceded to be the best series of mirth-provoking Speeches and 
Dialogues extant. Price 10 cents each. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munko’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to V^de water Street. New York 


OLD SLEUTH LIBRARY. 

raOIVTUI.Y. 


A Series of the Most Thrilling Detective Stories Ever Published 


NO. PRICE 

1 Old Sleuth the Detective 10c 

2 The King of the Detectives 10c 

3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph. First half 10c 

3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph. Second half. 10c 

4 Under a Million Disguises 10c 

5 Night Scenes in New York 10c 

6 Old Electricity, the Lightning Detective 10c 

7 The Shadow Detective. First half 10c 

7 The Shadow Detective. Second half. 10c 

8 Red-Light Will, the River Detective 10c 

9 Iron Burgess, the Government Detective 10c 

10 The Brigands of New York 10c 

11 Tracked by a Yentriloquist 10c 

12 The Twin Detectives 10c 

13 The French Detective 10c 

14 Billy Wayne, the St. Louis Detective. 10c 

15 The New York Detective 10c 

16 O’Neil McDarragh, the Irish Detective 10c 

17 Old Sleuth in Harness Again 10c 

18 The Lady Detective i 10c 

19 The Yankee Detective 10c 

20 The Fastest Boy in New York lOc 

21 Black Raven, the Georgia Detective 10c 

22 Night-Hawk, the Mounted Detective 10c 

23 The Gypsy Detective 10c 

24 The Mysteries and Miseries of New York 10c 

25 Old Terrible 10c 

26 The Smugglers of New York Bay 10c 

27 Manfred, the Magic Trick Detective 10c 

28 Mura, the Western Lady Detective 10c 

29 Monsieur Armand ; or, The French Detective, m New 

York 10c 

30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female Detective. Mi'st half 10c 

30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female Detective. Second half 10c 

31 Hamud, the Detective 10c 

32 The Giant Detective in France. First half 10c 

32 The Giant Detective in France, Second hal^ \ 10c 

33 The American Detective in Russia 10c 

34 The Dutch Detective 10c 


The Publisher will send any of the- above works by mail, 
postage prepaid, on receipt of the price, 10 cents each. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

17 to 27 Vandewater Sfc. and 45 to 53 Rose St., New Yorl: 


P. O. Box 3751. 


MUNRO’S: PUBLIGATIOHS. 


LADY BRANKSMERE, 

By -the duchess.” 

PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 
Complete in Seaside Library (Pocket Edition), No. 783» 

PlllCJE 30 CENJTS. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage prepaid, oh 
receipt of the price, 20 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vande water Street, New York. 


SEASIDE LIBRARY (POCKET EDITION), NO. 748. 

FOR ANOTHER’S SIN; 

OR, 

A STRUGGLE FOR LOVE. 

By GBABLOTTE M. BRAEMB, 

Author of “ Dora Thome.''' / 

PRINTED IN LARGE, BOLD, HANDSOME TYPE. 

PRICS: 30 CEI\TS. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent to any address, postage prepaid, ofi 
i-eeeipt of the price, 20 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro's Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New Yerfc 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONa 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY 

ORDINARY EDITION. 


GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 8781. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


The following works contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, 
on receipt of the price, by the publisher. Parties ordering by mail will please 
order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER'S WORKS. 


30 Her Dearest Foe . " 

36 The Wooing O’t * 

46 The Heritage of Langdale .................. 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 

400 Which Shall it Be? 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow.. 

1231 The Freres 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 

1391 Look Before You Leap 

1502 The Australian Aunt...,,..... 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 

1721 The Executor 

1924 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid, .............. 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

1.3 A Princess of Thule 

28 A Daughter of Heth. . 

17 In Silk Attire. ... 

48 The Strange Adventures of a F»«eton.. . . , 
54 Kilmeny. 


20 

20 

20 . 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 . 

10 ’ 

20 



... 2C 

... 10 

...10 
... 10 


TUB SEASIDE LIBRART. — Ordinary Ed'Cttsn. 


68 The Monarch of Mincing Lane K? 

79 Madcap Violet (small type),.. 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers - . . . l(j 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures an'd Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

:826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

'950 Suiirise: A Stoiy of These Times 20 

!1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRA^DDON’S WORKS. 

^6 Aurora Floyd : 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20 

:89 The Levels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

.'109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 1 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love - 30 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit 26 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 26 

469 Rupert Godwin 06 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Ordinary Edition, 


n:..nsnr»r I I I I . II. I. MU II II r ir in F JM. 

481 Vixen 2C 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

619 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

650 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E.- Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans-and Sinners 20 

856 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 30 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 30 

942 Asphodel 20 

3154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 30 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1916 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY. AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) <4 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 


^11 The Professor . . - 5,. . . - . „ , . , ........ 


THE BEASUbB LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 

■ ■ ■ , ■ , ■■■ _ ■ ■ ^ 

^9 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette... 2C 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall j 3C 

!098 Agnes Grey 2C 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga 2C> 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl. 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande 20 

907 Three Sewing Girls. . . . 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

U33 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Yendetta; or, The Southern Heiress, 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Blfrida; or,‘A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

i709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated). 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch ; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes. ..... 20 

WILKIE COLLINS' WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 2C 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 2^1 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen..... 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money. 10 

225 The Two Destinies . 10 

250 No Name. 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life. 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Ordinm'y Edition. 


661 The Yellow Mask 10 

583 Fallen Leaves. 20 

664 Poor Miss Finch 20 

675 The Moonstone. 20 

606 Jezebel’s Daughter 20 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

005 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

028 Who Killed Zebedee?. 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 “I Say Ko”. 20 

• J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WOR^S. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslay er 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water- Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20> 

761 Wing-and'Wing 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte / 20 

1257 Afioat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to “Afioat and Ashore”) 20 

1569 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Yignerons. 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or. The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific. ... 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 30 

102 Hard Times 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBB ARY.— Ordinary Edition. 


118 Great Expectations 26 

187 David Copperfield 20 

200 Nicholas Nickleby j 20 

213 Barnaby Budge 20 

218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 

247 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist. 20 

289 A Christmas Carol 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

308 The Chimes 10 

317 The Battle of Life 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers 20 

359 Somebody’s Luggage 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction 10 

403 Tom Tiddler’s Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 

827 The Mudfog Papers, &c 10 

860 The Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

900 Pictures From Italy 10 

1411 A Child’s History of England 20 

1464 The Picnic Papers. 20 

1558 Three Detective Anecdotes, and Other Sketches 10 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF “DORA THORNE.” 

449 More Bitter than Death % 10 

618 Madolin’s Lover 20 

656 A Golden Dawn 19 

678 A Dead Heart 10 

718 Lord Lynne’s Choice; or, True Love Never Runs Smooth. 10 

746 Which Loved Him Best 2<1 

846 Dora Thorne 30 

«21 At War with Herself 19 














"TT'^V >•' 








SOAPMAKERS BYSEAbED APPOIN'TMEN'P 

To H.RB.t]ie PRINCE of WALES* 








:'bS\ 



’ * ** A 


‘ v - » , V 

V » ^•*. 

^ ' '•j' 1 * * 

‘ f ; ‘Vi 

■ .'^f. ■'.i.^.'^^ 



i. .?v.' .- 


':v. 




. i. 


v.i 


’V 

iVr 



VilT'* 


.i • 


.. , 

^ •• * 1 .** • 


«l 


• : 


rr» 


5?'^ ^ 


• # 


\*f V . A. ■ /. r • , •, . t ..■ . 

\ » * •,'* . • '•" • 


,» >r 




■ . • 'V 4 B 

, I ." ••'»: ■ *1 * 

T^'i -“' . ‘ --v >•:.*' 

A A** . .VI'.v . 

'M ,, 

• • .‘Ai' --A 


'l*f. 


v ^• 

. ^ 


f •* . 

/ ' « « t 

( t • • ' 




i> 




t ; -I '•^ ■< 

V. r:^ i . 




» 


* . . 


P 


"’■’ V'v' ^ ■ 

*' • i'fj.*.-k ' , - ' * 


t 

* > 


’ •T'lt- • ’ ^ 

T .-c-* ♦ 

'■ '•■■'■"A-;- fe- 5 i' ■ ■ •■■'I 

*A*ii** j A -..*f 




' . ■ 


> - V/ 


"V- ‘V ' r' •* 

:■ Vi 


y 


V-I I 


» t ♦ 


■A/' V ^ ^ ..‘. N V’'* 

- ■w.-i-Bm'' ''wV'" ' 

•:.*fflSHi' ■ ■>-•''; - . / iCi - 

‘ V.; ‘I* ' '" V* . ■ ■•■Vo '*lit 


‘ X V” 

• W ?/. ♦ ,. \ f. 

*■ » 


•►I/ 

* i. 


<* • 


,♦ 

i 


C 


;/ 




.V 


'p * ’• . ♦ 

i" • ‘ 


>5/ •'ij. I 



( 


• r 


*1 






« 


»;■ » 


•» 

»- 


I A ^ v’ 


'V' 


•r 


-i«T-''r ’j!-V 

J If 


f 




■•■• ■t>-’ 

• '; ' 'f-** 




. 4 ^^. ■,>. ,.•1 ' 


. I 





« .'I 


>•. ^ 


'■»'»• I • 

k 

T 1 


■ ?'■ ' 

>>»■ ) . 

*' ' ■i‘ 


k. 


^■4 . i *'^*^*w -LPCtti'* '■ •• t * f4 I •• '> ” 

" . ..■- a? " ■ • ^ 


Y 

’/V., 







>• ' 

»-•' » 



1 
•w 

■'7 


< 

- ♦ 


•> t 

» 


•' f . 


4 4 

A 


- 4 ''-' A ■' 


* 

«* 




J . 


u « 



J- 


Fii ‘ 4 \M . -*" . -" 'ri aow 

V* *. -..V'* 'V '‘■^■' • ' “/. ‘^V •.*■•■ Yr i. ' •■"'V* 

«ll.wv,-*As r.v\ -.^iv 

4 'i-. . JtiLl^ OM fei 

-Jv, » ' ,-ff 1 « r nniiitam ^ 




- *y' .>.♦* 
v* . U 'i 


«u 


:ai 


bJ » * 


* - •* 














aMND, SQUAEE AND UPEIGHT PIANOS. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 

Centennial Exnthi- 
tion, 1876: Monti-eal, 
1881 and 1883. 

The enviable po- 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 


They are used 
in Conservato 
rics, Schools and 
Seminaries, onao 
count oi their su 
perior tono and 
uneq.ualed dnra> 
bility. 

The SOHMEB 
Piano is a special 
favorite with the 
leading musiciani 
and critics. 


ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPUIiAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y, 


THE 


THE 


“Short LineLimited” 


“Shore Line Limited” 


TO 


TO 


St. Paul and Minneapolis. 


Milwaukee and Waukesha. 


IT TRAVERSES THE MOST DESIRABLE PORTIONS OP..^ 

ILLINOIS, IOWA, NEBRASKA, WISCONSIN, MINNESOTA, DAKOTA 
WYOMING AND NORTHERN MICHIGAN. 

^THE . POPULAR • SHORT- LINEi- 

BE*". WEEN 

CHICAGO, MILWAUKEE, MADISON, ST. PAUL, 

OMAHA, COUNCIL BLUFFS, DENVER, 

PORTLAND, OREGON, 

AND ADD POINTS IN THE WEST AND NORTHWEST. 

PALACE SLEEPING CARS, PALATIAL DINING CARJ 

AND SUPERB DAY COACHES ON THROUGH TRAINS. 

Close Connections in Union Depots with Branch and Connecting Lines 

ALL AGENTS SELL TICKETS VIA THE NORTH-WESTERN. 


MINNEAPOLIS, 
SAN FRANCISC4 


Kfiw York Office, 409 Broadway. Chicago Office, 62 Clark St. 

Boston Office, 6 State Street. Omaha Office, 14 1 1 Farnnm St. 

JUInncapolU Office, 13 Mcollet llonse. St. Paul Office, 159 K. Third St. 


Penver Office, 8 U Indaor Hotel Block. 

San I'ranclsco Office, 2 New Montgomery S 
Milwaukee Office, 102 IVlaconsIn Street. 


R . S . Hair, General Passenger Agent, f HIC.VCO, ILL. 



« -fm- 



i 




I 


i 




♦ 







f 



» 





I 









•« 


I 


1 



« 



5 k- 






I 


t i 


. V 




• • 






1 I. r 1 . 


I V 


J1 







